How To Be Tactless

I'm having dinner with an old friend tonight. She's one of the very few people I am still friends with from High School and she lives in California now with her husband. They're expecting their first child in December, a boy. I put together a box of things I wanted her to have, some used and some never used. It has a luxe blanket, two lovies, a pair of sneakers, a cloth diaper, newborn socks, a newborn towel, and two sleepers. I expect that she will ask why I'm not keeping these things. The answer is both simple and complicated. I bought them for a hypothetical second child. A child who will never exist. For someone who always planned to have more than one child, and who will almost certainly have more than one child, this will be hard to understand. I expect that I'll have to explain why, which is where things get complicated.

Do I start with the high risk pregnancy? The precipitous labor? The PPD? Should I just cut to the chase and explain the infertility? All of these things are the reason, and yet there is more. When I found out I had an early miscarriage, and that I was suffering for Luteal Phase Defect, I wasn't upset. I was relieved. Even though we were trying to conceive again, I knew I didn't really want it. When the pregnancy didn't take, and when I found out it was highly unlikely that another pregnancy ever would take, I thought, "well, that settles that." I wasn't upset. It was great to have that weight lifted off my shoulders. I no longer have to tell people that we just don't want a second, although that is true most of the time, but that we can't have another. People are much more forgiving when you tell them you're infertile.

This is why I've always thought it tactless to ask anyone when they will have a child. It's impossible to know what someone is dealing with. They may want another child, and are unable to conceive. They may have been on the fence, like we were, and in the face of troubles, chose to retreat. No matter what the circumstance, it just seems so tacky to ask, "so when are you having another?" So, please don't ask me when we're having another. We're not. We can't. We don't want to.

Black & White

A lot of people seem to see aspects of parenting as black and white. If you do "x" then you are either a "good parent," or "terrible parent." People rarely stop to get the full story on any parenting decision before deciding that it's either right for everyone, or wrong for everyone.

I detailed my breastfeeding story and how Gabby just couldn't breastfeed. But, when breastfeeding advocates fail to get the full story, or even a brief summary of the story, they tend to judge. "Breast is best, you're not doing what's best." Ouch. That doesn't help anyone. For my child, breast wasn't best, formula was. Deal with it.

Anything in the "Attachment Parenting" genre seems to illicit some extreme reactions from both sides. Those int he AP camp think any parent that puts their kid in a baby swing, or lets a toddler cry a little before falling asleep, are obviously abusive and negligent (obviously). Meanwhile, those on the other end, people like my mother, think it's insane not to have a baby Cry It Out by the time they are six months old. Her thoughts on co-sleeping? Coddling. Let a child choose their own outfit? No way. A parent should choose all clothing until the child is 12 (no lie, she picked out all my clothes until I was 12, and then wondered why I rebelled and dyed my hair purple).

Parenting isn't this cut and dry thing, though. It's complicated, and you have to do what's best for each kid at that moment in time. I never let Gabby cry without being comforted for the entire first year of her life, and she cried a lot. When she passed a year, though, and decided to go on a very calculated sleep strike, I had to put an end to it. She was very obviously choosing to throw a tantrum every night when I would put her in her crib because she wanted to stay up and play all night long (she's a major night owl). There is a huge difference between a baby crying because they need their parent for some reason, and a toddler throwing a tantrum because they don't want to go to bed. Did I use CIO? I wouldn't call it that, but she did cry, and I didn't go get her. So, if I'm a terrible parent for that, so be it. However, after two nights, she learned that she needs to get all her playing done with before bed, and she's been just fine. Amazingly, she doesn't seem to have suffered any severe psychological damage either! Imagine that.

Based on this, some people would instantly write me off as "bad mom." They would assume that bottle-propped while watching Jerry Springer, smoking a Parliament, and ignored my kid swinging away in her motorized swing. Life isn't that simple, though, and anyone who thinks it is, is the simple one.

No, I never owned a baby swing. Gabby was worn in a soft-structured carrier from a month old until she didn't want to be anymore (about six months). I never bottle-propped, either. In fact, Gabby has never held her own bottle, ever. It's always been a very snuggly time (well, after she stopped writhing in agony during feeds, that is). I don't watch Jerry Springer, and I quit smoking in High School (err... umm.. I didn't smoke in High School, right. Shh...) For every choice along the road of parenting I've chosen the best choice for us, which is not always the "best choice."

Before Gabby was born, I knew I wanted her to stay in her rear-facing car seat until she was two years old. I had read all the studies that said it was much safer, and obviously, that was the best thing for my kid. I didn't count on her having a major digestive disturbance, and I certainly didn't expect her to get severely carsick on very short rides (five minutes was all it took). She was getting so sick on every car ride, that her doctor (my uncle), told us she needed to be flipped forward facing, the sooner the better. She was only six months old when he made this recommendation. I held out until she was 9 months old, but it was getting to be really bad. Even the car safety experts will say that when a child is getting sick because of rear-facing seats, it is better to flip them early, then allow them to continue getting sick on every car ride. Even though it's not the "best choice" to flip a kid early, it was for us. She's only gotten sick once since, and it was because my mom took us on a very windy ride, even I felt yucky afterward.

Judging other parents doesn't do us any good. It may make someone feel better to compare themselves to someone else, and say, "I'm better because I do xyz," but it's not true. You can't tell a whole story from a snapshot, and it's foolish to try. Blanket statements, beliefs and comments help no one, and the inflexible person, is the one that will be forced to break in the end.

Scary Boobs

Before I got pregnant, I knew nothing about breastfeeding. Literally, nothing. No one in my family had breastfed. I was the first in my social circle to get pregnant, so none of my friends were helpful. I just assumed I'd use formula, because it's what everyone did, and I knew nothing else. My husband, Lee, is a scientist, though. He did know a bit (not a whole lot, since he's a Physicist) about the benefits of breastfeeding, and told me that I needed to really look into it before coming to any conclusions.

So I did. Everything I read said that breastfeeding was superior to formula. Also, from what I was reading, it didn't even seem hard! Everything talked about how natural it was, and that there should only be a mild soreness. I could totally deal with that! I have a crazy high pain tolerance. So, it was settled, I'd breastfeed our child. I mean, how could I ever have considered otherwise? It was the most logical, natural choice!

I told everyone my plans to breastfeed. I was so pleased with myself. I said that I'd go as long as my child wanted, a year, two years, even three! In my small town, where no one breastfeeds, I was now an even bigger weirdo than I had been already. "You want to do that?," one of my coworkers asked in disgust, as she went on to talk about her breasts being "only for [her husband] to play with." She giggled, and I tried to suppress my urge to vomit.

I couldn't help but feel really good about myself. I was going to breastfeed. I was doing the "right" thing for my child, even when so many people around me didn't. I was, obviously, the better parent.

Then Gabriella was born. Even after our traumatic birth experience, I had high hopes for breastfeeding. Except that they kept her for hours after she was born. I had only held her for a single minute. When they brought her back to me, three hours later, she was fast asleep. She didn't want to breastfeed at all. So we waited. Eventually, she woke up, and a nurse helped me get her latched. It was odd, but not horrible. We switched sides, and for some reason, she seemed to get really upset. She sucked for only a moment, pulled off (painfully, I might add), and began wailing. What was wrong with my baby? What was wrong with me? Why did she hate me?

The lactation consultant was no help at all. She said, "everything is fine," and she never came back again. Meanwhile, Gabby just kept screaming. A little sucking, ripping away from me, and screaming. It was horrible.

It didn't get better when we got home. Instead the ripping away got worse as she got bigger and stronger. She started arching her back away from my breasts. She wanted nothing to do with them. She hated them. She cried all the time. I began to suspect that she had GERD, but her pediatrician said that we needed to "wait and see." She told me that even if she did have it, they were not going to prescribe any medication, and that I would need to find a specialist instead. They wouldn't even give us Zantac.

Then came the day when she refused to nurse. I couldn't even get her latched. She just arched away from me. I called her usual doctor, who asked if it was a "true emergency." I screamed at her that my child, "has gotten no fluids for the past 18 hours, did that feel like an emergency [to her]?" I hung up on her before she could answer, and called my uncle Tony, who is a pediatrician. Without seeing her once, he immediately diagnosed her with GERD, and told me that I needed to find a way to get fluids in her ASAP. He told me to try a bottle with Pediasure. I knew that you aren't supposed to give bottles if you want breastfeeding to work, but seriously, what else should I have done? My child was getting dehydrated by the minute! I gave her the bottle, and she reluctantly drank it. He told me I should try pumping and giving the bottle to see if she can handle that.

I officially switched her to my uncle as her doctor, even though he is over an hour away from us. He prescribed a few different prescriptions in an effort to treat, what was determined to be, severe GERD, and we fiddled with them until she seemed to be okay. Not perfect, but a lot better.

I continued to give her pumped milk for weeks while we were adjusting the meds just right. When things settled down, I tried breastfeeding again, but she wanted nothing to do with it. She cried as soon as I started to unlatch my nursing tank. She refused to latch. My boobs were absolutely scary to her. They were a source of pain, and sickness. For other babies, nursing is a source of comfort and bonding, but not for Gabby. She knew them to provide nothing but discomfort.

I kept trying for several weeks longer, and she continued to flat-out refuse. My uncle said she developed a feeding aversion when it came to nursing, and that it was very unlikely that she would ever get over it. He told me I could keep pumping, or I could switch to formula, which was "okay too."

I felt I needed to keep pumping; it was the least I could do at this point. Except, every time I would hook myself up that dreaded device, it was like the joy was being sucked out of me. Then one day, I thought, "wouldn't my family be better off without me?" I knew something was really wrong.

I was diagnosed with PPD, and the only medication that helped was one that was not safe for breastfeeding. There really was no choice to even think about. Without this medication, my child wouldn't have breast milk anyway, because her mother would likely kill herself. The choice was obvious.

My friends and family all said to me, "see we told you breastfeeding wasn't worth it," and, "we knew it wasn't going to work for you." Not the words of "encouragement" I needed. Online communities were no better. The breastfeeding moms would tell me that I did my child wrong. That I didn't try hard enough to get her back on the breast, that I should have "chosen" a PPD med that was safe for nursing. No matter where I went, I couldn't win.

It was my husband that really made everything better for me. He said, "Samantha, you are an amazing mother. Our daughter is so lucky to have you. Who cares how she is getting fed, the point is that you're feeding her with love." He's a great guy :-)

Now we have a 100% healthy, funny, smart 17-month old (can't believe she's that old!), and I'm 100% at peace with everything.

Infertility, really

Yesterday, I mentioned to a stranger on the blogosphere that I was experiencing secondary infertility. Like most people would, stranger commented that all infertility really is, is the failure to conceive after a year of trying to do so, and that 98% of people will go on to conceive after three years of trying. Now, if you've read any of my previous posts, you'll know that this is not "my infertility." This is how "unknown infertility" is determined, but it is not the same for those with known infertility. The cause of my infertility is Luteal Phase Defect (LPD), and it's not something that will just correct itself with time. It is something that will persist indefinitely if left untreated. B6 can work for some (it hasn't yet for me), but if not, the next step is Clomid, and that's a step I'm not willing to take. So even though Lee and I have only been TTC for a few months now, I know that I'm infertile, and that it won't "just happen eventually." The most that will ever happen, without Clomid, is a series of very early miscarriages. Something I don't want to keep dealing with, over and over again.

I appreciate people being positive and well-meaning, but I don't really need it. I don't want pity, or sympathy. My life is truly great. This is just something that made up our minds about a second child for us, and that's okay.

Adventures in Cloth Diapering

So, I've been cloth diapering Gabby for over a week now, and I really like it! It helps that I'm strange, and enjoy doing laundry and tidying up.

I started with just 3 FuzziBunz OS diapers, and then followed that up with another 11. I now have a stash of 14 FuzziBunz OS. I really like the FuzziBunz so far, but I'm having a bit of trouble getting the fit just right. Every time I adjust the elastics, it either ends up too tight, leaving red marks, or too loose, causing gapping. I'm not really sure how to get that perfect fit, yet.

Today I ordered a small stash of Happy Heinys OS w/Snaps to try, too. I'm not sure how they'll work, but I'm hoping they won't be a full-out disaster.

Sometimes I wonder, do I really want another?

Last night, there was a big storm. It woke Gabby up and she cried briefly. I didn't need to go in, I never do anymore, which is a relief.

In the morning, I heard her wake up and start talking to her Elmo and Woody. I'm able to linger in the morning before getting her now, which allows me to really wake up first. Then I thought, "why would I ever want to deal with a newborn again?"

I realized I don't have a good answer to that question. I know Gabby will be a bit spoiled if it's just her, but she is naturally outgoing and empathetic. I don't really worry about her being a nasty little princess.

The selfish and nervous part of me wants to have a second "just in case," but I know nothing would ever lessen the blow if something happened to her.

Then realize that the most intense reason I want a second child is because it's expected. It's what my friends, family, and society expect of me. Another compelling reason is for the "do over," the chance to do it better the second time around.

When I get right to the heart of things, I love my life, as is. I want Gabby to have a close bound with me and Lee, and another child would just get in the way of that. Financially, and emotionally we're better off with one. I just feel all this pressure to have another, and between that and hormones, it's hard to keep my wits.

We got the girl we both wanted. She's everything we could want, why mess with perfection, right?

dreaming of a homebirth

I know it's presumptuous of me to even think about any kind of future birth, let alone bemoan the fact that I won't be able to have the type of birth I would most desire. However, I keep stumbling upon stories of homebirths and can't help but feel a twinge of sadness that if I am able to have another child, I have no choice but to deliver in a hospital.

My pregnancy with G-baby was going great up until the last trimester. I conceived pretty quickly (after only 3 months of actively trying), had no morning sickness, and was feeling generally really good. Not to mention, actually enjoying my body for the first time in my whole life. On New Years Eve, we went out for our annual New Years dinner. That night, right around midnight, I woke up from my sleep, went into the bathroom, and threw up the whole meal. I hadn't been thrown up in almost 20 years. Something wasn't right. Then, two weeks later, while I was on break for the MLK holiday, I painted Gabby's nursery. I went without eating for a few hours, and got incredibly lightheaded and very irritable. Not usual for me.

At the end of January, I took the test for GD (gestational diabetes), and even though I started pregnancy at 105 lbs, and had only gained 15 up to that point, I tested positive. The rest of my pregnancy was consumed with blood tests, dieting, non-stress tests, and ultrasounds galore. Then, around 32 weeks, I started to feel like Gabby's head was literally between my legs. My doctor did an internal, and sure enough I was already 2cm dilated and 70% effaced. At 35 weeks, I was at work, and for several hours had been ignoring the strange pangs in my abdomen. Except at lunch, they got pronounced enough that I couldn't eat. My doctor had me go to the hospital. I was 3cm dilated and 80% effaced. Once at the hospital, the contractions started to peter out, and I stopped progressing. I was sent home on modified bed rest until 37 weeks.

Gabby held out until 39 weeks. I was going to be induced in days, because of the GD. The whole night, I had needed to pee a lot. It was like she was just pummeling my bladder. Finally, she seemed to stop, and I tried to sleep. Except then it felt like I had to go #2. For an hour, I sat on the toilet, wondering why I couldn't seem to go. I gave up, and when I stood, saw the bloody show in the toilet bowl. I woke Lee, and we went to the hospital.

Once at the hospital, the nurses didn't think anything was urgent. I didn't seem to be in a lot of pain and was handling conversation well. I sat in triage waiting to be examined for about half an hour. A resident doctor came in to check me, and was astounded to find that I was 7cm, 100% effaced. She wheeled me down to the L&D suite. On the way, the nurse mentioned sending for my epidural, to which I responded that I didn't want one. She told me, "No one ever does it without one."

Once in the room, they hooked me up to the fetal monitors, and IVs with fluid. They started asking me when I first noticed the contractions (around midnight), and other questions. When my doctor arrived, he asked again if I wanted an epidural. I told him I didn't, and he broke my water. This was the first time I actually felt my contractions. I started to question whether I could do it without the epidural after all.

I believe it was a half hour after he broke my water that I told Lee I felt the need to push. Lee went to get my doctor, and sure enough, it was time. I started pushing, and was astounded by the pain. It was worse then I was expecting. The nurses scolded me for screaming. The same nurses who had never witnessed anyone give birth without an epidural.

After a few pushes, the doctor told the resident that Gabby was "in distress," and that he wanted to use the vacuum to get her out faster. He performed a level 3 episiotomy, but before he got the vacuum ready, I had another contraction. I pushed with all my might, and got her out on my own. Lee didn't get to cut the cord. The scooped her up and took her away to the other side of the room.

Lee went with Gabby while I was being tended to. She was just fine after all. They had her for 15 minutes, doing all the usual stuff. Then, they let me hold her very briefly (literally, one minute), before taking her to the nursery for about three hours. I never thought to make them keep her with me.

Every one tells me I should be grateful for the way things worked out. I am, partly. I'm obviously glad that Gabby came out healthy. I'm not happy with the fact that she was kept from for me the first several hours, though. I'm not happy that the people at the hospital made me fear a natural labor and then chastised me for shouting when it hurt. If I were to give birth in a hospital again, I would expect each of these things to be remedied, and I would also expect to be discharged after 24 hours, not 48, because I want my whole family to be together as soon as possible.

I'm not eligible for a homebirth, and not even a birthing center. I'm a "high risk" patient, with a history of precipitous labor (all in all, it was between 3-4 hours from the time my first contraction hit to Gabby's arrival). Doesn't mean I have to settle for a subpar hospital experience, though.