Sadness

It seems like the longer I exclusively pump breast milk for Sam, the more I wish  I could nurse.  At first, when we couldn't nurse and I figured out pumping, I was so relieved to have a solution that I didn't mourn nursing too much, holding out hope Sam and I could eventually try again.  When he was three months old, I did try again, but had so much pain with nursing that I stopped.  When he was six months old, I tried a third time, but my breast was as foreign to him as if I'd just offered him milk in a shoe; that ship had sailed.

There are a lot of moments when I've felt sad about it.  For example, when Sam was just a few weeks old, I went to a breastfeeding support group, and felt like a complete outsider, sitting in that room with all those nursing moms, and me with my baby and his ridiculous bottle.  Other times, I feel sad when I am tied to the pump and someone else is feeding, caring for, playing with my baby.  I also worry about lost nutrients, bottle contamination, and other negative effects of putting a bunch of plastic between my son and his milk. 

But more broadly, I feel increasingly sad about the lost opportunity for bonding and connection as Sam grows more communicative.  While I am sure we made up for it in other ways, there is just no substitute for the nursing experience.  The good news is, I feel it is my loss and not so much my son's.  I know now that the failure to nurse resulted from a bad latch combined with a few other negative factors like edema, and if I had found the right help, it's possible it could have worked.  Maybe, next time?

Formula as an intervention

Lately I've been hearing the phrase "risks of not breastfeeding" a lot. This is different than talking about "pros and cons of breastfeeding," as it is often presented.  It was presented this way in the book I used during pregnancy, From the Hips by Rebecca Odes and Ceridwen Morris, which cited "more margaritas" as a "pro" to formula feeding; I think it was meant to be irreverent or humorous, but given what I know now  about the significant health differences between the average formula-fed baby and the average breastfed baby, I question its validity. (Though, this book did a good job overall on the whole in its breastfeeding section.)


What if infant formula were considered an intervention by the medical community? Then, the risks of using it could be listed, much like a medicine. The choice still belongs to the mother, but the argument is framed such that breastfeeding is the norm and formula is the intervention. For example, the natural way to keep our cholesterol low is eating a healthy diet high in fiber and low in saturated fat. But for some people, that isn't enough, and for others, sticking to a diet isn't feasible. In either case, there is medicine to help, for which the patient can understand the risks.

Of course, the "patient" in the case of breastfeeding is not one's self but one's infant. Does this change our responsibilities?  It it irresponsible not to attempt to breastfeed?  I'm not sure, but even if it is, it doesn't seem right to place this kind of accountability with individual moms when our society fails to support it.

Mommyfood

I just finished reading Eating Animals by Jonathan Safran Foer.  It's a report on meat production in the US and a philosophical and ethical viewpoint on eating meat.  The author turns to vegetarianism because it's the only way for him to avoid supporting factory farming, by which the vast majority of our meat is produced cheaply by externalizing huge ethical, humanitarian, and environmental costs.  While I have not created any new "rules" for myself, it has caused me to think more carefully about the food I eat.

We are extremely fortunate to be able to source and afford meats, dairy, and seasonal vegetables directly from local farms whose practices are acceptable--organic when possible and, with animal products, the animals are always pasture-raised, fed a natural diet, and cared for by actual human farmers and their families. Sweetwater Farm, Robinson Farm, Diemand Farm, Carter and Stevens Farm, and Adams Farm supply us with fantastic food here in central Massachusetts; Localharvest.org is also a great resource.)

On my food choices: where did it come from?  What did it cost the animal, the environment, the workers to make?  What will it cost my health (and thereby my child's health) to eat it?  Asking these questions could be a step in reducing my impact and being healthy, and also teaching my child about food.

The most "whole" babyfood

Sam has been actively experimenting with food this summer.  I try to give him the most whole version of the food (without posing a choking hazard, of course) so eventually he will have an idea of how food grows: he has plucked blueberries from bushes straight into his mouth, slurped on garden tomatoes, gnawed on pork ribs, and popped corn kernels off the cob. 

Sweet corn is a huge hit!













At 10 months, breast milk is still the biggest part of his diet, but we're sure having fun with the solids now!

Burying my head in the sand

A defining element of motherhood for me has been the intense emotions that some from the "infant survival" instincts.  Any thought of harm coming to my baby, or anyone else's, sends my anxiety through the roof.  I experienced these emotions to an awful degree in the high-SIDS-risk months.   It's also what kept me in such a state of high anxiety--and depression--when I wasn't able to breastfeed my baby well in his first weeks.

Lately, it kicks in whenever I hear a news story about a tragedy involving a child.  For example, last night I watched a Dateline NBC show about a deranged woman who murdered a man after he ended a relationship with her.  The story was told from the perspective of the man's parents, who left their home to move closer to their son's killer and her baby, their only grandchild, born after the murder.  The show was filled with home movies and pictures of the baby, chubby and cherubic like Sam.  It ended in absolutely the worst way possible: a murder-suicide by the woman, stripping from the grandparents the one ray of hope in their lives and depriving an innocent child of his future. This morning I can't stop thinking about this poor child every time I look at Sam.

A few weeks ago, I found myself agonizing for days after listening to a radio interview with a female author of a memoir who discussed in detail aborting a baby in the fourth month of pregnancy after testing positive for a genetic disorder.

And last week, I read an article in Time magazine called "the only child myth," which discussed some things parents consider when deciding whether to have more than one child.  I thought, morbidly, that it did not mention the risk of child loss as a reason for having more than one.

Things like this rarely crossed my mind before I became a mother, and news stories certainly didn't send adrenaline coursing through my blood.   Of course, harm comes to children every day, and lots of it, because of humanity's imperfections.  Not long ago I read The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver, which takes place in mid-century Africa, where women give birth to nine children in the hopes that two will survive to adulthood.  What are the mechanisms that allow people, especially mothers, to cope with the reality of children who suffer, and children who die?
Maybe it will get easier for me to face the truths of the world as Sam gets older. But for now, the only thing I can bring myself to do is turn off the radio and TV and bury my head in the sand.

Pumping at work

I happened upon interesting view into trying to work and be a breastfeeding mom at the same time.

A requirement for managing this is either having your own office or working for one of the few companies that provides dedicated space. We can't expect to have attitudes like this in the workplace and increase breastfeeding rates in any significant way.

Foraging for babyfood

The wild blueberries in our backyard have ripened early this year, and Sam can't get enough of them.  We're not sure if he even bothers to gum them up before swallowing, with the speed at which he shovels them in.  The wild strawberries last month were even better--they are softer and taste like candy--though there weren't as many to enjoy.  He also loved the raspberries we had at Gran and Papa's house in western New York last weekend, picked from their woods.  I'm trying to think of a way he could enjoy some of their wild black cherries that doesn't involve me pitting them by hand.  Maybe a mortar and pestle?  (He also "foraged" some Mountain Laurel recently, which, according to the very helpful poison control operator, is toxic, but only in large quantities.)

Since babies get most of their nutrition from milk or formula during the first year, feeding solid food before one year of age seems to be mainly for training purposes.  If that's the case, I want to make a variety of textures and flavors available (not just mushy food) so he can practice and learn.  It's also important that we eat the freshest and most wholesome food we can manage, for the best nutrition and flavor.  Foraging for berries has been one fun way to eat good things, appreciate our country surroundings, and (eventually) learn where food comes from.

It's my dream that good food will become just a normal, enjoyable part of life for him, as it is for me.