Today, I introduced Kayla to formula. I didn't want to do it until she was 6 months old, but she was just hungry and I wasn't keeping up my end of the bargain.
She has always gotten less milk than Maya did. I used to get 5 or 6 ounces when I pumped for Maya, but I'm lucky to get 4 ounces at a time now, and it's often more like 2 1/2 to 3. Last night, since she had been asleep for a few hours and I was still up, I pumped during the night and put about 3 1/2 ounces in the freezer, planning to pump some more today. But when I pumped midday today, I got about an ounce. And right after that, she woke up.
So there I was, with a few ounces of frozen milk, totally tapped out and with a hungry Kayla. I decided that fighting the good fight wasn't really that good, if it was leaving her unsatisfied. I think stress has been cutting into what was already a questionable level of production, and right at a time when she's needing more and more.
She accepted the 60% breastmilk/40% formula mix I gave her very enthusiastically, so I think she will transition quite well to having a mix, or even straight formula sometimes.
I'm a little disappointed, and it's hard not to blame myself — I didn't drink enough water, I didn't make time to pump often enough so we had a good stockpile, I work too much and let my self get stressed out, etc. Interestingly, one of the things I was working long hours on this past week was the August issue of Healthy U, which features a story on none other than breastfeeding. The first week of August is World Breastfeeding Week, in fact, and I wrote my editor's column all about the challenges of breastfeeding, and how important it is for a nursing mom to have support.
I have had plenty of support, and I'm not quitting or giving up. I'll continue to nurse Kayla when I'm home (I come home at lunchtime to feed her, in addition to her morning feeding and all her many evening ones.) And I'll continue to pump at work, and keep as much of her diet straight breastmilk as I can. But it's actually kind of a relief to introduce the formula, because I think part of my stress has been worrying about whether she's getting enough to eat. When that's no longer on my mind, maybe my reduced stress will help my production improve.
I think it's important for breastfeeding advocates to push for better understanding in the community and encourage moms to breastfeed for as long as they are able, but I also think there's a little bit of backlash for the moms who, for any number of reasons, are unable to follow through with their breastfeeding plans. For some, formula is necessary from the beginning; for others, like me, it's a supplement that's added sooner than expected. For all the benefits of breastfeeding that are touted, like better immunity and higher IQ, there is the unspoken but implied flip-side: If I'm not able to breastfeed exclusively, will my child be less healthy? Less smart?
Of course not. But it's enough to lead an otherwise rational woman (I'm speaking of myself here) to let her baby's hunger not always be completely satisfied in order to avoid adding formula and possibly affecting her milk supply in a negative way. When I say that now, it seems ridiculous, but it's a reality many women face.
Well, now the pressure's off. It's liberating, in a way. Now I don't have to worry about whether Kayla is getting enough nourishment every day. I don't have to worry about having enough stored milk to leave her with a sitter (see my first blog post about taking her to the movies for more on that subject). And I don't have to stress out if lunch rolls around and I haven't pumped yet.
I should have done this weeks ago — for her benefit and mine.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Sunday, July 10, 2011
My Electric Youth
Tonight, I am thinking ahead to when Maya and Kayla are older, and they reach the age when their dad and I will no longer be the most important people in their lives. It's so early on when their peers will have the only opinions that really matter. No matter what I say, it will not heal Maya's wounds when her best friend stops calling because she doesn't fit in with her new clique, or make Kayla feel any better when the boy she likes asks another girl to the dance.
I'm not sure why I'm planning for them to be socially awkward. I guess it's because I was. This train of thought came from a funny place: I downloaded some music from my childhood, and I am now sitting here, listening to Debbie Gibson and being transported to a time when nothing — nothing — was more important than being cool. And I was not cool.
I always had friends, and they were good friends. We had great fun together and supported each other, and now I can see how much more value that had — quality vs. quantity. My friends were quality; it wasn't that I wanted other friends. I just wanted myself — and them — to be part of the romanticized "cool kids." I know. I sound like an '80s movie. And I realize now that pretty much everyone feels like they were in an '80s movie.
Looking back, I can see exactly what I did wrong. I never put myself out there and got involved in things. I wasn't a member of the cheer squad, not because those girls didn't like me, but because I never tried out. I didn't do sports. I didn't join clubs. I have never, ever, played on a team for anything. It just never occurred to me that I could do any of those things. (I'll go ahead and defend myself here with a little disclaimer: I didn't like P.E. because running triggered my asthma, and I assumed any sort of sport would be just like P.E.) So I didn't have the sort of built-in friendships and social practice that comes from being part of a team.
I wasn't very outgoing with kids my age, either. I would talk the ear off an adult, no problem, but I was painfully shy with my peers. I was precocious, and I didn't really fit in well with the kids my age, who were a grade behind, or the older kids that I was in classes with.
I had my music, of course, but even in a choir or the cast of a show, singing is sort of individual activity for me. (Whether that's a bad thing is a topic for a whole other discussion.)
In short, being a kid sucks for everyone, but it definitely felt like it sucked more for me than it did for most. And that was really, really important at the time.
Now? Totally irrelevant. That social currency those popular kids had deflated to almost nothing pretty much instantly after graduation. Why? Because it was in my imagination. Those popular girls are my friends now. They never weren't. They weren't excluding me through any malice — they were just close with who they were close with. And the very strangest thing about all of that was realizing that I unintentionally excluded people, too. There were people who wanted to be my friend, who didn't think I liked them. What? That's crazy.
I hope that I can use my experience to help make Maya and Kayla's youth a little less torturous. Doesn't every parent hope that? Truthfully, I think that will happen anyway. After all, I think they are the most beautiful and wonderful girls in the world, so surely everyone else will have the same opinion, right? Just in case, though, I want to get them involved — and not just in individual activities like dance or music or tennis or bowling, but team activities like soccer.
Of course, no matter how popular and well-ajdusted they are, being a kid will still suck. And somehow, hearing that their social standing in middle school won't matter once they're adults probably won't give them much comfort. Besides, I'm sure they'll discount any advice I try to offer as out-of-touch.
"Mom, you just don't understand!"
Actually, honey, I understand better than you think.
I'm not sure why I'm planning for them to be socially awkward. I guess it's because I was. This train of thought came from a funny place: I downloaded some music from my childhood, and I am now sitting here, listening to Debbie Gibson and being transported to a time when nothing — nothing — was more important than being cool. And I was not cool.
I always had friends, and they were good friends. We had great fun together and supported each other, and now I can see how much more value that had — quality vs. quantity. My friends were quality; it wasn't that I wanted other friends. I just wanted myself — and them — to be part of the romanticized "cool kids." I know. I sound like an '80s movie. And I realize now that pretty much everyone feels like they were in an '80s movie.
Looking back, I can see exactly what I did wrong. I never put myself out there and got involved in things. I wasn't a member of the cheer squad, not because those girls didn't like me, but because I never tried out. I didn't do sports. I didn't join clubs. I have never, ever, played on a team for anything. It just never occurred to me that I could do any of those things. (I'll go ahead and defend myself here with a little disclaimer: I didn't like P.E. because running triggered my asthma, and I assumed any sort of sport would be just like P.E.) So I didn't have the sort of built-in friendships and social practice that comes from being part of a team.
I wasn't very outgoing with kids my age, either. I would talk the ear off an adult, no problem, but I was painfully shy with my peers. I was precocious, and I didn't really fit in well with the kids my age, who were a grade behind, or the older kids that I was in classes with.
I had my music, of course, but even in a choir or the cast of a show, singing is sort of individual activity for me. (Whether that's a bad thing is a topic for a whole other discussion.)
In short, being a kid sucks for everyone, but it definitely felt like it sucked more for me than it did for most. And that was really, really important at the time.
Now? Totally irrelevant. That social currency those popular kids had deflated to almost nothing pretty much instantly after graduation. Why? Because it was in my imagination. Those popular girls are my friends now. They never weren't. They weren't excluding me through any malice — they were just close with who they were close with. And the very strangest thing about all of that was realizing that I unintentionally excluded people, too. There were people who wanted to be my friend, who didn't think I liked them. What? That's crazy.
I hope that I can use my experience to help make Maya and Kayla's youth a little less torturous. Doesn't every parent hope that? Truthfully, I think that will happen anyway. After all, I think they are the most beautiful and wonderful girls in the world, so surely everyone else will have the same opinion, right? Just in case, though, I want to get them involved — and not just in individual activities like dance or music or tennis or bowling, but team activities like soccer.
Of course, no matter how popular and well-ajdusted they are, being a kid will still suck. And somehow, hearing that their social standing in middle school won't matter once they're adults probably won't give them much comfort. Besides, I'm sure they'll discount any advice I try to offer as out-of-touch.
"Mom, you just don't understand!"
Actually, honey, I understand better than you think.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Sleep — it's a good thing
Parents of young babies are probably the most sleep-deprived people on earth. You see them at work, nodding off in their coffee, their bloodshot eyes drooping closed during meetings. They have a harried look about them, with their hastily selected, sometimes mismatched clothing and impaired ability to follow a conversation. They pace the floors at night or fall asleep sitting up, only to awaken hours later and be unable to turn their head to the right all day. Then, when they finally get their little tyrant to fall asleep, they go to lay him down and — bam. Awake and screaming. Again.
What some little babies do to their parents' sleep is prohibited under the Geneva Convention.
But that's so not what's happening at our house. At the risk of tempting fate and inciting hate mail from zombie moms and dads, I will just come out and say it: Our baby is a freak.
As long as she's fed, her diaper is clean, and it's after 9 or so, I can lay a fully awake Kayla (3-1/2 months) in her crib and she rolls onto her side, plugs her thumb into her mouth, and goes to sleep. Just like that. No crying. No endlessly repeated attempts to transfer her to the crib without waking her. She just sort of accepts that it's bedtime and zonks out.
And to make things even more improbable, she then proceeds to sleep through the night, without waking, until such time as I go in and get her up in the morning. That's right — I get her up. Around 8:30 or 9, I go in and wake her up to feed her before work. And she greets me with a big smile, like being woken up is the best thing that's ever happened to her.
I'm pretty sure I have the easiest, happiest baby ever.
Of course, now that I've put that in writing and sent it out into cyberspace for tens of people to read, it will probably change. I'm operating under the certainty that every night will be the last night of blissful baby sleep. I'm also half expecting someone with expertise in these matters to tell me "Yeah, that seems nice now, but it actually means she'll grow up to be a serial killer."
But for now, I'm just enjoying my tiny sleep machine. And how am I taking advantage of this fortuitous arrangement? By sleeping? No. By sitting up at the computer at 2 a.m., writing about it.
She definitely doesn't get her sleep tendencies from me.
What some little babies do to their parents' sleep is prohibited under the Geneva Convention.
But that's so not what's happening at our house. At the risk of tempting fate and inciting hate mail from zombie moms and dads, I will just come out and say it: Our baby is a freak.
As long as she's fed, her diaper is clean, and it's after 9 or so, I can lay a fully awake Kayla (3-1/2 months) in her crib and she rolls onto her side, plugs her thumb into her mouth, and goes to sleep. Just like that. No crying. No endlessly repeated attempts to transfer her to the crib without waking her. She just sort of accepts that it's bedtime and zonks out.
And to make things even more improbable, she then proceeds to sleep through the night, without waking, until such time as I go in and get her up in the morning. That's right — I get her up. Around 8:30 or 9, I go in and wake her up to feed her before work. And she greets me with a big smile, like being woken up is the best thing that's ever happened to her.
I'm pretty sure I have the easiest, happiest baby ever.
Of course, now that I've put that in writing and sent it out into cyberspace for tens of people to read, it will probably change. I'm operating under the certainty that every night will be the last night of blissful baby sleep. I'm also half expecting someone with expertise in these matters to tell me "Yeah, that seems nice now, but it actually means she'll grow up to be a serial killer."
But for now, I'm just enjoying my tiny sleep machine. And how am I taking advantage of this fortuitous arrangement? By sleeping? No. By sitting up at the computer at 2 a.m., writing about it.
She definitely doesn't get her sleep tendencies from me.
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