Most of my blog posts are actually really lengthy extensions of my already really lengthy facebook status updates, and this one is no exception. Today's really lengthy status update was as follows (you know you're self-absorbed when you quote yourself...did I mention the word "self"?):
"Lana bla bla bla (fake facebook name) just resigned from a brief and highly disconcerting church gig, and it feels SO liberating! No more critiques of my sloppy attire and my diction and repertoire choices. I'm sorry Mary Baker Eddy, but I'm pretty sure Jesus doesn't give a rat's ARSE how long my sleeves are, and enough with all the the talk about 'Error'. Did you somehow skip the section about forgiveness and Grace in the Bible?"
What followed was the usual silly string of comments about shirt sleeves and prostitution. But then a good friend whom I've known for many years sent me a message that said "We've talked about grace in the past. I like it when you talk about grace". My knee jerk reaction was to respond with some witty pun ("who is Grace? Why are you so obsessed with her?") but then I thought that perhaps this would be a good chance to partake in my annual "hey, I'm actually kinda spiritual n' stuff" religion-themed post.
I've had many singing gigs in churches. Most of them have been an odd but lovely concoction of interpersonal relations, desperate soprano section pitch matching efforts, and last but never least (much as I try to make it so), God. I once sang at a church in Tucson which had a, hem hem, "cowboy service". I will never forget the visual image of the round elderly folk scattered through the pews, their cowboy hats bobbing diligently atop their heads as they nodded along to the sermon. Nor will I forget the time the stoned organist at another gig dropped a large Bach cantata score onto the organ in the middle of silent prayer, causing an obscenely loud and flatulent organ tone to resonate through the sanctuary. Needless to say, I did not succeed at maintaining a professional demeanor, and am still not sure how I recovered from the fit of gut-wrenching giggles that ensued.
So I was unpleasantly surprised when I began this latest gig and found myself missing all of the quirks I had come to love in my previous positions. The interpersonal relationships consisted of passive aggressive phone calls about the dress code and may failure to meet it. There was no pitch matching, because I sang antiquated and joyless solos to a small frowning congregation. Who knew I would miss those screechy untrained soprano section voices so much? And finally, there was no God. At least not the God I have come to believe in...who is, in my humble opinion, full of Grace.
But what the hell IS Grace (note: currently resisting more puns about the name)? I think it's different for everyone. For me, it's easier to identify what it isn't. It's NOT the idea that God is sitting at a judgement table above, ready to pound the gavel (is that even a word?) whenever we screw up. It's NOT the idea that you will be punished for all of your mistakes. And it's NOT the idea that if you take a wrong turn in your life, all will be lost.
I found grace in the second chances life gives you, and trust me, I've needed every second chance I could get. I found grace in the fact that the people who love me are far more understanding of me than I ever am of myself. I found grace by meeting my husband at a wedding in Montana, despite the fact that he worked two blocks away from me in Seattle. And I found grace by getting pregnant unexpectedly while trying to recover emotionally from a miscarriage, and later giving birth to the greatest joy of my life.
So when it comes down to it, I left this gig not because of the passive aggressive wardrobe suggestions. I left it because the liturgy was full of language about "Error"; How to fix it, how to control it, and how to rid it from your life via studious devotion to the cryptic writing of a 19th century woman named Mary. I just couldn't take it anymore. I've wasted too much of my life in toxic churches that heap more guilt onto my counterproductive tendency to punish myself for the slightest screw up. Maybe if we earnest Christians (or recovering Christians) could all just get the frick over ourselves and our guilt about being human, there would be more room in our spirits for grace and God to find a humble home.
Last, since any discussion of God would be incomplete without music, I'll conclude this post on a happy note (chortle chortle) with one of my favorite grace-themed songs by the great Stevie Wonder (click here).
Monday, August 22, 2011
Friday, June 17, 2011
Why I will never be one of those jogging stroller moms...
Yet another profound revelation. I will never be a jogging stroller mom (henceforth referred to as JSM, because my fingers are lazy, at least when it comes to some activities..insert innuendo here).
Before I had my own chid, I would shuffle around Greenlake and stare with admiration as the JSMs passed me by with their limber size -2 postpartum bodies, their children sitting like perfect dolls in the safe confines of a pricey stroller Hummer. I sort of hated them, mostly because I knew they probably lived in some adorable 5 bedroom craftsman bungalow in a prestigious Seattle neighborhood which I would never be able to afford. Have I mentioned that envy is one of my biggest defects of character? But I also sort of loved them, because their toned bodies meant that if I had a baby, I would not be forced to become a chubby, frumpy mom with a cheap haircut and pleated stone-washed jeans. They offered proof that I could be a mom AND a fitness goddess, both goals that I hoped to achieve before age 45!
I've achieved one of those goals (I'll let you guess which one) and today, I took that fussy little goal on our first jogging stroller adventure. During that 20 minutes of sheer unadulterated non-bliss, I realized a few things. And thus commences yet another blog entry list:
1) Although I am utterly and completely in love with my child, why would I bring the fussy creature WITH me when I exercise, when I can use exercise as a way to get a few precious hours to myself???
2) I don't care how well designed a jogging stroller is or how many gadgets it includes. Pushing a large object wile running is simply NOT A NATURAL HUMAN ACTIVITY! I can't tell you how many times I nearly a) ran into the stroller when it slowed down, b) ran into the people walking by me and smiling at my screaming child, or c) pushed the stroller INTO the lake I was running next to.
3) I had to stop about 40 times due to Elliot's fun new game, called "throw my binky from the stroller, say 'uh oh' in my little imp voice, whine at mommy until she returns said binky despite her assertive proclamations of "ALL DONE BINKY", suck on binky for roughly .006 seconds once I've worn my annoyed mommy down, and then commence the game again".
After Elliot's binky mysteriously propelled itself 20 feet in the air for the umpteenth time, a JSM prototype passed me by. Her perfectly colored hair bounced cheerfully as her slender legs carried her and her non-binky-catapulting child forward. Then she did something utterly unexpected. She SMILED at me! I think she thought "yay! Another JSM, she and I could be BFF!". Little did she know I was mentally exploring my entire lexicon of curse words. But I smiled back at her in a friendly JSM club greeting, secretly thinking "you seem nice lady, but this club SUCKS".
And yet again I've realized that the things that I envy are not always what they seem. So I'm starting my own club called "mildly fit moms who go to yoga and Zumba as often as they can so their wonderful husbands have to put their fussy child to bed".
Before I had my own chid, I would shuffle around Greenlake and stare with admiration as the JSMs passed me by with their limber size -2 postpartum bodies, their children sitting like perfect dolls in the safe confines of a pricey stroller Hummer. I sort of hated them, mostly because I knew they probably lived in some adorable 5 bedroom craftsman bungalow in a prestigious Seattle neighborhood which I would never be able to afford. Have I mentioned that envy is one of my biggest defects of character? But I also sort of loved them, because their toned bodies meant that if I had a baby, I would not be forced to become a chubby, frumpy mom with a cheap haircut and pleated stone-washed jeans. They offered proof that I could be a mom AND a fitness goddess, both goals that I hoped to achieve before age 45!
I've achieved one of those goals (I'll let you guess which one) and today, I took that fussy little goal on our first jogging stroller adventure. During that 20 minutes of sheer unadulterated non-bliss, I realized a few things. And thus commences yet another blog entry list:
1) Although I am utterly and completely in love with my child, why would I bring the fussy creature WITH me when I exercise, when I can use exercise as a way to get a few precious hours to myself???
2) I don't care how well designed a jogging stroller is or how many gadgets it includes. Pushing a large object wile running is simply NOT A NATURAL HUMAN ACTIVITY! I can't tell you how many times I nearly a) ran into the stroller when it slowed down, b) ran into the people walking by me and smiling at my screaming child, or c) pushed the stroller INTO the lake I was running next to.
3) I had to stop about 40 times due to Elliot's fun new game, called "throw my binky from the stroller, say 'uh oh' in my little imp voice, whine at mommy until she returns said binky despite her assertive proclamations of "ALL DONE BINKY", suck on binky for roughly .006 seconds once I've worn my annoyed mommy down, and then commence the game again".
After Elliot's binky mysteriously propelled itself 20 feet in the air for the umpteenth time, a JSM prototype passed me by. Her perfectly colored hair bounced cheerfully as her slender legs carried her and her non-binky-catapulting child forward. Then she did something utterly unexpected. She SMILED at me! I think she thought "yay! Another JSM, she and I could be BFF!". Little did she know I was mentally exploring my entire lexicon of curse words. But I smiled back at her in a friendly JSM club greeting, secretly thinking "you seem nice lady, but this club SUCKS".
And yet again I've realized that the things that I envy are not always what they seem. So I'm starting my own club called "mildly fit moms who go to yoga and Zumba as often as they can so their wonderful husbands have to put their fussy child to bed".
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Why shave this summer, when you can wear THIS???
That's right ladies. Put away those razers, trimmers, waxers, and other doodads that I have never figured out how to use. This fashion gurista is here to tell you that full-coverage swimwear is in your future! I have yet to find any full-coverage swimwear that isn't considered an antique item from the 1920s, but that is neither here nor there.
Seriously though, each year as summer approaches, I live in dread of my annual bloody battles with the dreaded bikini line. My husband will be the first to tell you (in a very mournful tone) that the razor and I are NOT BFF. In fact, we're not even FF. We're more like EF (enemies forever??? DUH!). And this is because the razor hurts my skin, my confidence, and my mood.
So why not wax, you may ask? I've done it before. Twice in fact, and both times in lovely serene spa settings. The first time was a month before I gave birth (mainly b/c all the mom blogs told me to do it, and I somehow thought I would end up with a C-section if I didn't wax and get a pedi before entering the hospital). The second time was a week before we went to Hawaii last fall. I would love to go to wax spa new age music therapy on a monthly basis, but who can afford THAT?
This may lead you to ask the next logical question, "why not go to a cheap Asian spa for a cheap Asian wax job?". Um, no thank you. I love the women who work in such places, and I have nothing against people of Asian heritage. However, the Asian spa ladies are not known for gentle touches OR tact. If I wanted to be insulted and plucked violently, I would hang out with my $2 razor, thank you very much.
And so in my attempt to maintain my dignity and avoid razor burn in awkward places this summer, I've just purchased a wonderful little invention called "board shorts". They are...wait for it....shorts that you wear while swimming!!!! Who knew? Granted they are designed for athletic surfer chics...which I am clearly not one of. But I'm willing to walk around with a fake surfboard if that's what it takes to gain the right to wear shorts to the pool. Either that, or I'll travel in time to the 1920s, when swimwear was more dignified.
Seriously though, each year as summer approaches, I live in dread of my annual bloody battles with the dreaded bikini line. My husband will be the first to tell you (in a very mournful tone) that the razor and I are NOT BFF. In fact, we're not even FF. We're more like EF (enemies forever??? DUH!). And this is because the razor hurts my skin, my confidence, and my mood.
So why not wax, you may ask? I've done it before. Twice in fact, and both times in lovely serene spa settings. The first time was a month before I gave birth (mainly b/c all the mom blogs told me to do it, and I somehow thought I would end up with a C-section if I didn't wax and get a pedi before entering the hospital). The second time was a week before we went to Hawaii last fall. I would love to go to wax spa new age music therapy on a monthly basis, but who can afford THAT?
This may lead you to ask the next logical question, "why not go to a cheap Asian spa for a cheap Asian wax job?". Um, no thank you. I love the women who work in such places, and I have nothing against people of Asian heritage. However, the Asian spa ladies are not known for gentle touches OR tact. If I wanted to be insulted and plucked violently, I would hang out with my $2 razor, thank you very much.
And so in my attempt to maintain my dignity and avoid razor burn in awkward places this summer, I've just purchased a wonderful little invention called "board shorts". They are...wait for it....shorts that you wear while swimming!!!! Who knew? Granted they are designed for athletic surfer chics...which I am clearly not one of. But I'm willing to walk around with a fake surfboard if that's what it takes to gain the right to wear shorts to the pool. Either that, or I'll travel in time to the 1920s, when swimwear was more dignified.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Shameless 1st birthday gushathon
My baby boy is turning one in two days. I have absolutely no clue how to wrap my brain around this, let alone put words to how much I adore the little imp. 
At times I can actually feel my heart stretching and filling with unfathomable amounts of love for him. Not to say that there aren't times when I feel my pulse racing with unfathomable amounts of annoyance and fatigue. You know that inhumanely tear-jerking scene in Titanic when Leo freezes in the water and Kate then lets him go and he floats down into the depths? Well, I love this kid so much that I would float to the bottom of the coldest sea for him. I also love him so much that I will never force him to watch Titanic.
So my sweet precious son, as you blossom from a tiny infant to a little a toddler, these are my birthday wishes for you:
May you find the world as goofy and silly as it really is (if you ever forget this, take a look at the obese squirrels in our backyard, or the wombat picture in your room).
May you learn to walk through trials instead of around them. And may you learn to walk in general, you know, whenever you're ready.
May you know that you are loved; imperfectly by your family, and perfectly by the Divine.
May you march to your own rhythm, even if it ends up being faster or slower than that of your peers.
May you stay out of the scary neighbor's yard.
May your young passions blossom into sustainable and fulfilling relationships.
May you be blessed with friends...and may your friends not be total brats.
May you realize that your mom and dad are probably the coolest (and humblest) people on this planet.
May you find hobbies that feed your soul. And may you find them on your own, without anyone pressuring you (speaking of which, I have you signed up for voice lessons next year).
May you fall in love with learning, and seek out knowledge because you just can't help yourself.
May you learn not to pick your boogers and eat them in public.
May you never feel alone in this world. Because guess what? You never will be!
I love you baby boy! Happy Birthday!
So my sweet precious son, as you blossom from a tiny infant to a little a toddler, these are my birthday wishes for you:
May you find the world as goofy and silly as it really is (if you ever forget this, take a look at the obese squirrels in our backyard, or the wombat picture in your room).
May you learn to walk through trials instead of around them. And may you learn to walk in general, you know, whenever you're ready.
May you know that you are loved; imperfectly by your family, and perfectly by the Divine.
May you march to your own rhythm, even if it ends up being faster or slower than that of your peers.
May you stay out of the scary neighbor's yard.
May your young passions blossom into sustainable and fulfilling relationships.
May you be blessed with friends...and may your friends not be total brats.
May you realize that your mom and dad are probably the coolest (and humblest) people on this planet.
May you find hobbies that feed your soul. And may you find them on your own, without anyone pressuring you (speaking of which, I have you signed up for voice lessons next year).
May you fall in love with learning, and seek out knowledge because you just can't help yourself.
May you learn not to pick your boogers and eat them in public.
May you never feel alone in this world. Because guess what? You never will be!
I love you baby boy! Happy Birthday!
Monday, March 28, 2011
The unconditional parenting happiest baby whisperer on the block libary.
Parenting books scare me. They stare at me from their dusty home on our bedroom shelf, taunting me with their guilt-ridden advice. Sometimes at night, I hear the authors whispering "if you read my book, Elliot will become the president someday. And by the way, I have 5 PhDs and you only have half of one...do you really think you are equipped to raise a child?".
I've managed to avoid most parenting books until now, despite their attempts at manipulation. Because every time I pick one up I am tempted to call CPS and report myself for committing such awful crimes as a) feeding my child right before he sleeps b) feeding my child too soon after he wakes up c) feeding my child too much produce or d) feeding my child anything other than organic produce which I grew in my own garden and mashed up with my own hands to avoid the perils of electricity exposure (which, by the way, causes Autism). If you feel confused by this paragraph, trust me, I'm more confused than you.
But lately I've been asking my mom friends for parenting book recommendations. What led me to this desperate place, you ask? It has a little something to do with the fact that I find myself saying "no Elliot!" every other second...as Elliot inserts wires into his mouth, attempts to grab tasty morsels from his dirty diaper, prepares to dive down lengthy stairwells, etc. And every time the word "NO" emerges from my lips in various shades of panic, I wonder "is there a better way to do this?".
Despite years of teaching experience I will be the first to admit that I know absolutely nothing about how to discipline a child. My parents did a great job raising two (really awesome and really attractive) kids. But I also missed 50% of 6th grade because I stayed home whenever I pleased (I know this because the school sent a very official letter). So I feel like my "discipline" technique is a blank slate, and now I'm faced with the monumental task of picking the right story to fill that slate (or write on that slate...what the hell do you do with slates by the way?).
I know there is no perfect theory or solution, unless the Super Nanny will agree to come live with us for the duration of Elliot's childhood. So the primary principle I am going to stick to for now is compassion: for myself as I fumble through parenthood, for my child as he fumbles into toddlerhood, and for all the parents who I've ever judged (except the parents who abuse their children- sorry jerks, I'm not that zen yet). Because when it comes down to it, the majority of us turn out OK. I skipped half of 6th grade and went on to have a 4.0 in high school (except for that stupid gym class, which I got a D in because I refused to take the body fat test in front of my snickering classmates), and my friends who were raised with stricter parents are all loving, well-adjusted people. As tempted as I am to treat parenting like an assignment with 1 correct answer, I will have to accept that there are no perfect answers. And as long as I don't fake a fever and stay home from 6th grade parenting school, I think Elliot will be OK in the end.
I've managed to avoid most parenting books until now, despite their attempts at manipulation. Because every time I pick one up I am tempted to call CPS and report myself for committing such awful crimes as a) feeding my child right before he sleeps b) feeding my child too soon after he wakes up c) feeding my child too much produce or d) feeding my child anything other than organic produce which I grew in my own garden and mashed up with my own hands to avoid the perils of electricity exposure (which, by the way, causes Autism). If you feel confused by this paragraph, trust me, I'm more confused than you.
But lately I've been asking my mom friends for parenting book recommendations. What led me to this desperate place, you ask? It has a little something to do with the fact that I find myself saying "no Elliot!" every other second...as Elliot inserts wires into his mouth, attempts to grab tasty morsels from his dirty diaper, prepares to dive down lengthy stairwells, etc. And every time the word "NO" emerges from my lips in various shades of panic, I wonder "is there a better way to do this?".
Despite years of teaching experience I will be the first to admit that I know absolutely nothing about how to discipline a child. My parents did a great job raising two (really awesome and really attractive) kids. But I also missed 50% of 6th grade because I stayed home whenever I pleased (I know this because the school sent a very official letter). So I feel like my "discipline" technique is a blank slate, and now I'm faced with the monumental task of picking the right story to fill that slate (or write on that slate...what the hell do you do with slates by the way?).
I know there is no perfect theory or solution, unless the Super Nanny will agree to come live with us for the duration of Elliot's childhood. So the primary principle I am going to stick to for now is compassion: for myself as I fumble through parenthood, for my child as he fumbles into toddlerhood, and for all the parents who I've ever judged (except the parents who abuse their children- sorry jerks, I'm not that zen yet). Because when it comes down to it, the majority of us turn out OK. I skipped half of 6th grade and went on to have a 4.0 in high school (except for that stupid gym class, which I got a D in because I refused to take the body fat test in front of my snickering classmates), and my friends who were raised with stricter parents are all loving, well-adjusted people. As tempted as I am to treat parenting like an assignment with 1 correct answer, I will have to accept that there are no perfect answers. And as long as I don't fake a fever and stay home from 6th grade parenting school, I think Elliot will be OK in the end.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Size [n > 10] and LOVING it.
You know those weight loss articles in fitness magazines that show the women before and after their 30 lb. weight loss? They typically include all the stats about pant size, weight, etc., and let's just say my pant size and weight tend to dwell stubbornly on the pre-weight loss end of the those stats. And for the first time in my life, I can truly say that I'm fine with that.
I began dieting as a, hem hem, "pleasantly plump" 12 year old. 7th grade lunch period equaled calorie counting. I remember joylessly chewing on my "light" wheat bread and tuna sandwich while the other big-banged pre-teen girls stuffed greasy tator tots into their mouths with careless abandon. After school I would rush home , put on an awkward 80s leotard and aerobics video, and flounce around the living room in an earnest attempt to shed the pounds. I lost a fair amount of weight this way, and I will never forget shopping at the gap and finally fitting into a size 10. What victory!
After that first taste of dieting obsession, I never stopped counting calories. During my 20s my weight fluctuated more than a bipolar person's mood. If I were to chart my weight during this time, I'm quite certain the graph would resemble a sinusoid. And the low amplitude portions of the sinusoid would occur after each break-up. But one thing that never fluctuated was my ability to list every calorie I'd consumed on a given day.
As fun as that perma-diet was, counting every calorie you consume is an exhausting practice to say the least. So I've stopped counting, and I really have no clue anymore whether I've had 2000 calories or 4000 calories each day. Perhaps it's because I'm now using all of my "calorie counting" neurons to keep track of what I feed my son. Or perhaps it's because I've realized that there are more important things in this life than obsessing over how thin I am. I think it's a combination of the two.
This is not to say that I've thrown in the towel and plan to spend my evenings cuddling up with a box of oreos (or watching the final episode of the bachelor while inhaling a box of girl scout cookies...you know, just a random example). I still try to eat healthy and I exercise when I can. But now when I exercise, I do it to strengthen my heart rather than tone my ass. I do it to keep myself healthy and energized so I am not out of breath when I play with my kid. And I do it to get a few sacred hours to myself. When I look in the mirror at the yoga studio, I no longer fixate on every imperfection and lump. I have grown to appreciate the unique landscape of my figure, knowing that the hills and valleys brought life into this world.
I began dieting as a, hem hem, "pleasantly plump" 12 year old. 7th grade lunch period equaled calorie counting. I remember joylessly chewing on my "light" wheat bread and tuna sandwich while the other big-banged pre-teen girls stuffed greasy tator tots into their mouths with careless abandon. After school I would rush home , put on an awkward 80s leotard and aerobics video, and flounce around the living room in an earnest attempt to shed the pounds. I lost a fair amount of weight this way, and I will never forget shopping at the gap and finally fitting into a size 10. What victory!
After that first taste of dieting obsession, I never stopped counting calories. During my 20s my weight fluctuated more than a bipolar person's mood. If I were to chart my weight during this time, I'm quite certain the graph would resemble a sinusoid. And the low amplitude portions of the sinusoid would occur after each break-up. But one thing that never fluctuated was my ability to list every calorie I'd consumed on a given day.
As fun as that perma-diet was, counting every calorie you consume is an exhausting practice to say the least. So I've stopped counting, and I really have no clue anymore whether I've had 2000 calories or 4000 calories each day. Perhaps it's because I'm now using all of my "calorie counting" neurons to keep track of what I feed my son. Or perhaps it's because I've realized that there are more important things in this life than obsessing over how thin I am. I think it's a combination of the two.
This is not to say that I've thrown in the towel and plan to spend my evenings cuddling up with a box of oreos (or watching the final episode of the bachelor while inhaling a box of girl scout cookies...you know, just a random example). I still try to eat healthy and I exercise when I can. But now when I exercise, I do it to strengthen my heart rather than tone my ass. I do it to keep myself healthy and energized so I am not out of breath when I play with my kid. And I do it to get a few sacred hours to myself. When I look in the mirror at the yoga studio, I no longer fixate on every imperfection and lump. I have grown to appreciate the unique landscape of my figure, knowing that the hills and valleys brought life into this world.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
LATCH ONTO THIS Giselle (and other semi-cynical thoughts about modern day breastfeeding guilt).
Recently the supermodel mom Giselle was quoted as stating that mothers should be legally required to breastfeed their babies until at least 6 months of age.
Before I had Elliot, I must admit that I agreed on some level. A lithe, mildly anorexic Giselle sat on my shoulder during my first months of motherhood, encouraging me to keep breastfeeding through cracked nipples, mastitis, and thrush. I loved breastfeeding my baby, and there is nothing sweeter than looking down at a tiny human as he suckles contentedly on sustenance that you created for him.
But when Elliot stopped wanting to breastfeed at 4 months due to the pain caused by his reflux, there was no amount of Giselle-guilt that could get him to latch onto my nipples again. And there was a LOT of guilt, trust me. Part of this was my own grief that my breastfeeding relationship with Elliot seemed to be over. And part of it was the fact that every source I turned to for information poured salt on the wound. I remember taking Elliot to a lactation consultant shortly after he stopped wanting to breastfeed. We discovered that he hadn't been gaining weight, and determined that he would need to supplement with formula. As she handed me the carton of formula, she said "just so you know, studies are now showing that formula can actually CAUSE some diseases". As I searched parenting books and websites for information about how to help Elliot with his reflux, it seemed that every page I looked at said in bold "formula makes reflux worse! If you want your baby to recover, you must breastfeed".
Every time I came across these messages I added extra pumping sessions to my day and pounded fenugreek, all in an effort to increase my milk supply. Until finally Rob and I decided that it was more important for me to be present for my son than to continue agonizing over my dwindling milk rations. Elliot gradually transitioned to formula as my supply faded (despite my continued pumping efforts) and once he got on the right medicine, his reflux did get better.
I truly do believe that breast IS best. And I think any mom who has ever picked up a book or talked to a doctor believes this as well. So this leaves me to wonder who the current high-pressure breastfeeding campaign is geared towards. Because none of the moms I know need any more pressure or guilt. So to all of you doctors, authors, mompetitors, and super models who judge moms who have tried their best to make breastfeeding work but don't succeed, I say "LATCH ONTO THIS, JERKS" (insert lewd image that may or may not involve me holding my breast in a very threatening fashion).
I write this post in the hopes of offering another perspective to guilt-ridden moms (and because I'm stuck in bed with a flu). Breastfeeding is a wonderful thing. But if your child never figures out how to latch, your breastmilk supply never comes in, or you have to supplement with formula for other reasons, please know that you are still an amazing mother and that you are not alone. Your child will still thrive, and will still bond with you. At some point, when you look into your child's eyes during a bottle feeding, you will be amazed to find him or her starting up at you with complete adoration and love. And there is nothing more pure than that.
Before I had Elliot, I must admit that I agreed on some level. A lithe, mildly anorexic Giselle sat on my shoulder during my first months of motherhood, encouraging me to keep breastfeeding through cracked nipples, mastitis, and thrush. I loved breastfeeding my baby, and there is nothing sweeter than looking down at a tiny human as he suckles contentedly on sustenance that you created for him.
But when Elliot stopped wanting to breastfeed at 4 months due to the pain caused by his reflux, there was no amount of Giselle-guilt that could get him to latch onto my nipples again. And there was a LOT of guilt, trust me. Part of this was my own grief that my breastfeeding relationship with Elliot seemed to be over. And part of it was the fact that every source I turned to for information poured salt on the wound. I remember taking Elliot to a lactation consultant shortly after he stopped wanting to breastfeed. We discovered that he hadn't been gaining weight, and determined that he would need to supplement with formula. As she handed me the carton of formula, she said "just so you know, studies are now showing that formula can actually CAUSE some diseases". As I searched parenting books and websites for information about how to help Elliot with his reflux, it seemed that every page I looked at said in bold "formula makes reflux worse! If you want your baby to recover, you must breastfeed".
Every time I came across these messages I added extra pumping sessions to my day and pounded fenugreek, all in an effort to increase my milk supply. Until finally Rob and I decided that it was more important for me to be present for my son than to continue agonizing over my dwindling milk rations. Elliot gradually transitioned to formula as my supply faded (despite my continued pumping efforts) and once he got on the right medicine, his reflux did get better.
I truly do believe that breast IS best. And I think any mom who has ever picked up a book or talked to a doctor believes this as well. So this leaves me to wonder who the current high-pressure breastfeeding campaign is geared towards. Because none of the moms I know need any more pressure or guilt. So to all of you doctors, authors, mompetitors, and super models who judge moms who have tried their best to make breastfeeding work but don't succeed, I say "LATCH ONTO THIS, JERKS" (insert lewd image that may or may not involve me holding my breast in a very threatening fashion).
I write this post in the hopes of offering another perspective to guilt-ridden moms (and because I'm stuck in bed with a flu). Breastfeeding is a wonderful thing. But if your child never figures out how to latch, your breastmilk supply never comes in, or you have to supplement with formula for other reasons, please know that you are still an amazing mother and that you are not alone. Your child will still thrive, and will still bond with you. At some point, when you look into your child's eyes during a bottle feeding, you will be amazed to find him or her starting up at you with complete adoration and love. And there is nothing more pure than that.
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