Single parent

Every once in a while, I get a few hours or even a day with just one of the kids.  I had that often when they were small -- years, of course, with Oliver before Emmeline came alone, then one summer that Emme stayed home with me while Oliver was in daycare, and much of the spring with Zola.  But it's different when they're older and can really enjoy the day and me -- and I them.

This afternoon, I picked up Emmeline from daycare at 2:15PM to take her to another post-surgical appointment. (Aside: her ankle is healing nicely.  The front looks quite good now, but the back is a little less healthy.  One large area on the side is still "declaring itself," but, while I don't speak plastic surgery, I'm pretty sure it's saying that it's dead and the area will have to scar over.)  I had to wake her up from a dead sleep at daycare.  It's only on the days I have to fetch her early that she ever naps at daycare, and today was one of those days.  I tried to rouse her gently, but she was so sleepy that I finally had to just pick her up.  We got to the doctor's office a little early, and after she played in the play area and on my phone for a bit, we saw the surgeon.  She snuggled in my lap for the exam, which is always so nice.  After we waited in the front of the office again to schedule her next appointment.  There was a newborn baby there for an appointment, and I flashed back to her first appointment with Dr. Chester, when Emme was about the same age as that little, tiny baby.  I can hardly believe it's been three years.

After the appointment we drove to the area mall to drop off our gifts for three angel tree kids.  I'd taken the whole crew to Target on Sunday (Zola on back, Emme in the cart, Oliver walking, which is usually a safe bet) to shop for them -- Abram, age 5, Joselin, age 2, and Yasmine, age 1.  But I wasn't going to drag all three into the mall to drop off the gifts.  Emme didn't have a shoe on this afternoon because it irritates her ankle, so I put her in the back carrier and let her ride along.  We dropped off the gifts, and then I took her to see the mall Christmas tree.  In true Self-child fashion, she dropped her jaw over the Christmas trees and gave not a second glance to the big man in the red suit sitting in the middle of all of them.  When she saw the big one that goes all the way to the ceiling, she said, "Wow" and just stared up for a while.  Afterwards, I took her to Panera for a smoothie.  We sat and chatted, and she made all the people around us smile at her antics and adorableness.  It was great.  We came home about 30 minutes before the rest of the crew, sat on the couch, and "read" a Harry & David catalog together, naming the fruits and talking about the treats.  Emme even went and got her favorite afghan to get cozy on the couch.  She loved it.  I loved it.

Part of the fun is the complete attention I can give one kid at a time.  I can ask better questions, listen to answers, probe for more thinking, and enjoy their reaction to the world around them.  Part of it is how the world interacts with us.  People are much more likely to look kindly on at the cute little kid with mom than the three crazy kids with their even crazier mom.  Being out with Emme usually gets comments like, "She adorable," or as in today's case, two college girls at Panera looking at her with big smiles at their faces.  Being out with all three usually gets comments like, "Well you've got your hands full" and folks steering clear of us in the aisles at Target, even when everyone is behaving quite nicely.

I never had any plans of having an only child.  Had that been our fate, I would have accepted it and enjoyed its benefits.  But I had no doubt in my mind that I wanted more than one (or two...or).  So I will bask in the moments I have with each kid one-on-one while likewise taking a moment to stop and drink in the sight of Zola following her older siblings around, of Oliver helping Zola down the stairs, of Oliver and Emmeline cuddled up on the couch watching the end of Pollyanna.  

Mother of three

I told iCal I was having dinner with someone on Friday night, and it defaulted to 8pm. Clearly iCal doesn't know that I have three children. 5pm it is.

An old family tradition, with three

Breakfast at the Cracker Barrel with all three kids?

Ollie and Emme had pancakes and did really well.

Zola had "bacon" (hah!) and didn't fuss.

Afterwards we took a trip to Target and used the "lots of kids" cart :)

To my daughter, who is two

Dear Emmeline,

I'm sitting on the couch in the living room of the house we brought you home to two years ago, and above me, I can hear you running around your room more than an hour into your "nap."  Your father and I have been up to reprimand you at least three times, once having removed a wad of wipes from your bed and another a pile of toys you took from the toy bin.  (Your dad said when he walked in you looked at him, smiled, and yawned.)  This moment, perhaps as well as any other one, embodies what it has been like to be your mother for the past two years.

If I could choose a few words that describe you, I would say busy, independent, spirited, and tough.  You have been a busy little girl since conception.  I remember sitting in one of my first classes as a PhD student, while one of my classmates looked at me with this strange face.  She could see the sharp kicks I was getting from you in utero and couldn't believe how strong you were.  Once you were born, you squirmed.  Once you could crawl, you were off.  And now that you are totally mobile, well, you are everywhere -- most recently climbing the couch and standing on chairs to reach the light switches.  Yesterday, your dad and I just laughed as you stood on a step stool in the bathroom for ten minutes or more turning on and off three switches.  In the last few months, you have become very independent, sometimes thanks to the six inches the step stool gives you.  Independent is not one of the many words you know, but there are three others that pretty much say it all: "Emme do it."  It's usually four words, though: "No," -- in response to whatever we are trying to help you with -- "Emme do it."   You are also a very willful child.  When your daddy came home from the hospital after I gave birth, he told your grandmother, "She likes to be held."  And you've been fussing your way into whatever you want since then -- or trying to.  You fussed as a baby.  You cry now, until I tell you that I don't know what you want unless you tell me.  You've been in the "terrible twos" of tantrums for at least six months.  You just have certain expectations in life, and "no," "not now," and "wait" are not words you like to hear.  But you're learning.  Sometimes when I've told you the same thing over and over again, you parrot it back to me with the same intonation.  So I know you're listening, even if it's not something you want to hear.  Spirited is maybe a nice way to say willful.  You have this adult-size personality in this little bitty body.  (We haven't weighed you recently, but I doubt you're much more than 25 pounds, the size your brother was at age one.)  And yet you take a lot of energy to keep up with.  You make these great faces, roll and cut your eyes, and recently have begun to harass your older brother, who is surely the meeker of the two of you.  "Sit down!" you tell him at dinner.  And when he's acting up, "Time out."  He doesn't think much of it (and for that matter, neither do I, though it's hilarious to watch).  And in the midst of your busyness and independence, you fall down, a lot, and usually don't make much of it.  Complete strangers have commented at the playground on how tough you are.  I suppose you've been made this way, quite literally, through the four surgeries you've had since birth.  Who else has hunks of skin removed and sewn back together without needing really any pain medication afterwards?

You are lots of other things, too.  At two, you can already converse with me, though not everyone else would understand it.  You used to answer every question with "yeah," like Sandra Bullock at the beginning of Miss Congeniality.  You've recently switched to "okay."  You are daytime potty trained (with an 80% confidence margin), which is just fantastic.  You love to read, maybe even more than your brother if that's possible.  "Read" was one of your first words, always used as a command.  Sometimes I think you say you need to go potty just so we'll read to you.  You can almost sing the ABC song, can count to ten, and can sing several little tunes.  You know your siblings' names and love to go pick up Oliver when I get you from daycare.  Your teachers at daycare think you're hilarious.

There are so many little things I wish I could capture about you right now.  Your funny run.  The sassy glint in your eye when I go up to get you after nap and you're sitting in your bed completely naked.  The way you and Oliver play together.  The way you lie down on Lucy's bed with her and pat her, or how excited you get to feed her.  How you laugh with glee after she takes the bone out of your pocket (one of your favorite games with her).  The way you ask to watch something before bedtime -- "Daniel Tiger?" you ask.  Or "Poppins?"  Or one of my favorites, "Soobya," which translates to "Scooby Doo, where are you?"

One of the things I love most about you is that you are a momma's girl.  When you feel sick or scared or upset, you want me.  (Of course, when I tell you "no," you want daddy, but still.)  You love to sit in my lap, and when I don't realize that's what you want, you climb up and insert yourself in my lap -- usually with a book.  I can't tell you how many times I've been sitting at the computer, checking email, and you're suddenly there in my lap asking to do letters on Starfall.  It's that kind of persistence and determination that I think will get you far in life.  I just hope that at the end of the day, you still climb into my lap and read with me -- for a while, at least.

In the next few weeks, we will bring home your little sister, and I have no idea what you will think of her.  I am confident that, over time, you will come to love her just as you do your older brother, but I don't think you will instantly be the doting older siblings that Oliver was with you.  And that's fine.  You'll have lots to teach her in time, and she you.

I hope you know, more than anything, how much I love you.  I tell you so every night, and I'm pretty sure that some nights, you try to tell me back.  I so wanted to have a daughter, and you have been so much more than I could have hoped for.  And I cannot wait to see who you become.

With love and nostalgia, your adoring momma.

And then there were three

She won't be home for Christmas,
but she's already part of the family.

I am the mother of three children – two who live in my home and have been with me since even before their birth, and one who lives in the Democratic Republic of Congo and whom I have never met.  Her name is Zola, and she is estimated to be around three months old.  Today, officially, I am her mother.

A little more than one year ago, Wes and I began talking about having more children.  It began earlier than that, of course, but that’s when the path that led us to Zola began.  And it started, as any good story in the modern age would, with a forwarded email.  Wes, who never ever forwards emails, sent one along sharing the news that a resident in his department had recently adopted a child from China.  It was the second beginning of a conversation that had started when Emme was only six months old.  We had talked then about the possibility of adopting, had looked into foster care and domestic adoption, and had ultimately, for a variety of reasons, dismissed the idea of doing an adoption of any kind, but especially international.  But then Wes forwarded this email, and the conversations started all over again and more in earnest.  Emme was a year old, and if we were going to keep the children relatively close in age, we would want to start the process sooner than later.  In the course of our conversations, Wes and I did what we usually do – I spent hours online reading blogs of adoptive families, researching adoption agencies, and learning about international and transracial adoption from the adoptive parents’ and adopted child’s perspectives; Wes thought.  For months, we would lie down at night, and I would tell him everything I’d read about, hoping he’d decide to move forward.  Instead, he would fall asleep, and I would lie awake with my head churning.  We talked about where to adopt from, how many, what special needs we were comfortable handling.  After lots and lots and lots of bedtime conversation, we chose a placement agency to work with and found a local home study worker to begin the process.  We collected paperwork, met with our home study agent and had her to the house, and got criminal background checks at the local, state, and federal levels.  Within a few months, we had completed our home study and also left the agency we had started with to work with a Congolese attorney through a U.S. coordinator.  By early October, after one final round of fingerprinting at the local USCIS office, we were “paper ready” – we had a complete dossier and approval from the U.S. government to bring an adopted child (or two) to the United States as our dependents to become citizens.

On October 4, I got a phone call from our coordinator in the U.S. letting me know there was a six-week-old baby girl waiting for placement.  She had no name, and the pictures showed a teeny baby with full head of hair.  (No photos in the blogosphere until she’s here in the U.S.)  It took a week or more to get her medicals and go over them with some pediatric friends who had experience in that part of Africa, but ten days later, we officially accepted the referral.  Her medical form showed that she had been given the name Zola.  We wired money to begin the legal proceedings and help pay for her to be cared for by a foster mother rather than in an orphanage, sent over our dossier, and waited to hear that things were moving forward.  Not quite four weeks later, we got another phone call, this time letting us know that we had already passed court and were in the 30-day appeals period.  A few days later I got the judgment papers that “pronounce the adoption of the child Zola to these claimants Mr. Wesley Hamilton Self and Mm. Elizabeth Anne Self “ and “that the child Zola will be renamed Zola Self.”  Seeing her name with ours on the court documents made us certain that we would keep her given name.  It means “peaceful” in Swahili. 

I don’t know that there is a really good explanation for why we decided to adopt.  When we got pregnant with Ollie and Emme, I was beyond excited.  I’ve always wanted to be a mom, and I’ve always thought I’d have a big family (if four children counts as big).  After I had Oliver, I had no doubt that I wanted to have another child and also to be pregnant again.  But after I had Oliver, I started to wonder if we should have more.  I also knew that I didn’t care if I was ever pregnant again.  Our kids have both been born with some anomalies – nothing life-threatening, per se, but things that are clearly related to our mix of genetic material and that could be associated with much more significant problems.  More importantly, I felt strange about getting pregnant again and having more children when I had become, with age, increasingly aware of the number of children that need families.  I don’t think adoption is “the right thing to do,” but for families like ours who see it as something they want to do and are prepared for the specific challenges it comes with, I do see it as a good thing to do.  Mind you, it doesn’t make us good people for doing it.

There is a much easier reason to explain why we chose the DRC.  Some are personal reasons.  Several years ago, Wes and I spent a few weeks in Tanzania, a neighboring country of the DRC, where Wes worked in a pediatrics ward.  We enjoyed our time there – the people, the culture, even the landscape.  We’ve talked about going back, especially with our children when they are older.  We feel, in some small way, connected to that part of the world more than anywhere else.  When we decided to adopt, I wanted it to be from a place that we would want to someday return to.  Zola will never know her birth parents, but I can make sure she knows the country where she was born.  I also wanted it to be a place where there were more children that needed families than the country could currently care for.  We currently sponsor two children (and their families – goats and chickens for Christmas!) in the DRC for this very reason.  The realities for children living in the DRC are harsh, especially for those estimated 5 million who are orphans.  According to a recent CNN article, the U.N. has labeled the DRC "the rape capital of the world" because rape is used as a weapon of war; an estimated 1,100 girls and women are raped every day.  Young boys in eastern Congo are often forced to become child soldiers.  And that is for those who live long enough.  According to the most recent World Factbook, the DRC is number 13 among nations for its infant mortality rate (77 deaths per 1,000 births).  Adopting one child, or even two, from a country in which children face such odds is hardly likely to change the realities there -- but it does have the potential to change the life of that one child, who may choose later in life to make her career in something that allows her to make an even bigger difference.  Her life story may make others aware of the needs in this place.  But make no mistake – in the few months it will take us to complete the process and bring Zola home, many more children will become orphans through disease, famine, and war.  The money we are spending to adopt her could have been spent on many other things, including formula for young children who might be able to stay with their birth families.  We feel like our choice to adopt from the DRC is a good one, but in this sense, it is also a selfish one.

Yesterday marked the end of our 30-day appeals period, and now, I am legally Zola’s mother.  The next few weeks and months will be full of excitement in our house – preparing the house, planning our travels to bring her to the U.S., and getting everything in order to meet our new daughter.  Her arrival in our home will hardly be the end of the story as we get to know her, she comes to know us as her parents, and all the siblings adjust to each other.  For any number of reasons, this is not like having another baby.   There is great joy in adoption, but there is loss, too.  Zola has lost her birth parents and will eventually be separated from the foster mother who has been caring for her.  In coming to the U.S. she will lose her nationality and the customs of her homeland.  We will do what we can to preserve a sense of all of these things in her life over the coming years, but there is loss nonetheless.  The challenges that result from this loss will come repeatedly over time, popping up in different ways, often unexpectedly.  We will have to help her cope with being an adopted child in a family with biological ones.  We will have to help her make sense of her identity as a Black child in an otherwise White family in a nation where race continues to be salient.  We will do our best, and have prepared in the ways we know how, but at times we will certainly fail and hope this resilient little girl is able to bounce back from our inevitable missteps as we learn with her.

We are not sure if our family is now done.  Unless something changes, we expect to add another child, a brother, in a few years.  Hopefully, we will have the chance to adopt again from the DRC and give Zola a sibling that can connect to her life story in ways that Ollie and Emme will not.  That door may close, however, and in that case, we would consider other routes for adoption (including domestic) or perhaps decide that our family is complete.  For now, we are finally letting ourselves imagine a home with three (3!) kiddos in it, one of whom is going to need me to be able to do her hair soon after joining us!

Zola Elizabeth Self, welcome to our family.  And thank you for having us.

Mom secrets

Sometimes in the morning I hear the kids awake but lay in bed a little longer, not so I can get more rest but do I can hear them talk

"Hold on, Emme. I'm going to go downstairs and get her. I'm not a big person, so I can't get you out of your crib."

Emme fusses when Oliver leaves the room.

"It's okay Emme. It's okay."

Drying up

Twenty-two bags.  That's how many bags of frozen breast milk I stored in the deep freezer and used over the past year.  Each Ziploc freezer bag held five bags of milk, with 10-14 ounces in each.  That's 1100-1540 ounces of milk, or around 200 6-ounce bottles of milk.  That doesn't include, of course, the nursing sessions, the pumped milk that went right into bottles, or the (very little) milk that got pumped and dumped because I didn't want to transport it.  Tonight, I took the very last one -- the last little Lansinoh bag marked "Mother's Milk" -- out of Bag 22 to defrost for tomorrow.  I haven't nursed since Friday afternoon, I think.  I got down to just mornings, and I'm just basically stretching it out, nursing if I get too full until my body gets the message.  I did it right this time, weaning slowly, starting last month when I had enough frozen milk to supplement while Emme was at daycare.  Then last week we introduced cow's milk -- a cup or two of that, two bottles of breast milk, and nursing in the morning.

She's sleeping through the night again and for good I think -- with the surgery and four (!) new top teeth behind us.  I know many would argue with me, but I think weaning has helped.  She doesn't wake at night looking for food.  She sleeps about twelve hours, and I'm making a big push to keep the pacifier to only bedtimes.  (It got used a lot more when we were traveling and she was teething.)  I'll try to eliminate it completely in the next month or two, once I know her sleep is set, but our pediatrician said that as long as it's only at bedtimes, it's not a major issue.

Weaning is always a mixed time for me emotionally.  It, more than anything else, seems to signify for me the transition from infancy to toddlerhood.  I like that I don't have to pump anymore -- I do truly loathe it. A time suck, if you'll forgive the phrase.  I like that bottles will soon be done with.  That I don't have to defrost milk ahead for daycare.  Emme has been pretty disinterested in any real nursing sessions for probably more than a month.  She wants to do it herself.  She can't sit still long enough to nurse for very long, especially if we're around other people.  It's a good time for both of us to be done.  But still -- there's a sense of time passing when I wean; it's the end of something.  Emme got absolutely nothing but breast milk, and that's kind of cool.  (Oliver got some, but very little, formula -- and mind you, there's nothing wrong with that.  It's just the absolutism of saying, "I exclusively breastfed for a year" that feels like an accomplishment for me.)  

If I approximate, on the conservative side, how much milk I've made in the past year, it's well over 10,000 ounces of milk.  That over 100 gallons.  But now we're done -- and, I think, that's okay.  The nursing bras have already been put away.  Soon the nursing pads will disappear.  In a few weeks, I can once again sleep without a bra on (another annoyance of nursing, but my letdown is too strong to go without), and I will probably switch back to the bras that I wore before Emme.  

So I'm drying up -- and drying a few tears -- but for the most part I'll celebrate my newfound freedom, pat myself on the back for a second job well done, pour Emme another sippy cup of milk and myself a glass of wine.  Cause baby, we're weaned.  

In honor of World Breastfeeding Week

Emme is almost seven months old, and breastfeeding is going well.  She's more easily distracted when nursing, so I sometimes have to take her up to her room to get her to eat well, but when she's really hungry, she eats quite a bit.  When she's finished eating, she kind of stops, looks up at me, and gets a huge smile on her face.  Kind of like she suddenly realizes I'm there, too.  She always has a long stretch at night without nursing, and recently we've had several nine, ten, eleven, even one twelve hour stretch.  Thank you, baby.

Now that I've had the experience of nursing two babies and sharing those experiences with other new moms, I know a few things to be true for me.  That, like seemingly everything in motherhood and parenting, is about the best anyone can say.

Breastfeeding may be best, but it's also, in my opinion, easiest.  When the baby is hungry, the food is ready.  Simple as that.  When Wes has, on the odd occasion, tried to give Emme a bottle late at night or early in the morning so that I can get some more sleep, I end up waking to the baby's cries and then staying awake through the whole thing.  We learned pretty quickly that if I'm in the same house as a nursing baby, it's easier for me to nurse than for him to try to help with bottle.  The flip side to this is that breastfeeding is easy because I am doing it.  It makes it easier on everyone, yes, but I'm also doing all the work.  It's a reality that is important to acknowledge even as I laud the act of breastfeeding.  So often it's all or nothing when women talk about nursing -- either it's wonderful and everyone should do it or it's horrible and no one should be pushed to do it.  I think it's helpful to realize that, like with everything, it's somewhere in the middle.  A lot of work for mom, but with a lot of benefits for her and baby.  Cheaper than formula, but then time is money, and there's a lot of time involved in breastfeeding.

For me, some breastfeeding paraphernalia has been really helpful.  I didn't use the Boppy much with Emme because I was just more comfortable nursing, but I used it a lot with Oliver.  I did use a nipple shield very briefly when trying to get Oliver off the bottle he had used during his stay in the NICU and onto the breast.  And I definitely use my breast pump.  A lot.  With Oliver, I used it right away at the suggestion of the lactation consultant who wasn't sure (along with everyone else) exactly how long he would be in the NICU.  Maybe because of that, I had a great milk supply early on (I pumped in addition to nursing, not in lieu, which is an important distinction).  With Emme, I pumped literally the third day because I was going back to classes and wanted to have enough milk to make it through the day.  I managed to pump two or three four-ounce bottles in two or three days, which was more than enough, and since then I've basically made an extra bottle a day.  I get up, I nurse, and then I pump.  Until this week, when I decided that the 700+ ounces of frozen milk in the bottom of my chest freezer was, quite simply, enough.  No need to stockpile any further.  Notably, though, this massive stockpile made it possible for me to leave Emme for five days to go to New Orleans and seven days to go to San Diego without having to worry about having enough milk for her.  Now, though, I know there's plenty there, and as long as it doesn't dwindle past about 200 ounces, I know I can do the bit of traveling I have planned this fall without worry.  So for the past three or four days, I dropped that pumping in the morning.  I nurse all day, but since she's not getting any bottles, I'm not making any either.  Just dropping that one pumping session first thing in the morning was hard.  Some combination of that and her sleeping longer at night meant that I had a lot of extra milk built up in the morning.  Unfortunately, the only way to get the body to stop making the extra is to not express it.  So I went a couple of days with a very full chest and sleeping on my back.  I think we've about figured things out.  I will continue to try and make just enough, and then when I get close to weaning, I can do it more slowly than I did with Oliver, using up my stash a bottle a day so that I dry up a little more slowly.

I didn't use a nursing cover with Oliver, but I also rarely nursed in public.  Neither of my children had any respect for my modesty while breastfeeding, and while some women may feel comfortable flashing a little breast while nursing (which is fine) or are able to do it more discreetly or with a receiving blanket, neither worked for me.  With Emme, I got one and have used it any number of times.  She can latch on and off without me worrying about covering up, I'm more comfortable nursing, and she doesn't get so distracted by wherever we are.  As an added bonus, I've used it as a coverup while pumping hands-free at my sister's house (with her husband around) and even while driving.  Some people argue that a nursing cover just makes nursing seem even more taboo -- something that shouldn't be done in public -- but for me it makes nursing out of the house possible and something I'm more willing to do, which seems to be the goal.  And if a little kid asks their mom what I'm doing or someone walks by me at the mall and puts it all together, they're still getting the message that breastfeeding out of the house is necessary and well, just fine.

I do enjoy breastfeeding.  I love getting to snuggle with my babies and stare at them while they eat.  I love being able to meet their needs and often instantly soothe them with the breast.  I love this further wonderment in what my body can do to create and sustain life.  I am thankful that my body has been able to do this with not a whole lot of challenges, as it's not always the case.

But I must say, as much as I enjoy it, I'm not someone who is especially interested in extended breastfeeding.  I am not a small-busted woman, and breastfeeding doesn't help things.  I have an ample milk supply and strong let-down, so I wear nursing pads every day.  I'm not one of those women who can put on a nursing tank and just go out for the day -- there has to be layers of support (this time I at least learned to wear nursing bras with an underwire).  I'm in school and working, so I have to pump to keep up my supply when I'm not with her, which I can't imagine doing long term.  Basically, by about a year, when the baby can move to cow's milk and no formula is necessary, I'm ready to have my body back.  I shed my last few pounds with Ollie when I finally weaned, and my sense is that will happen this time, too.  I recognize the merits of extended breastfeeding, but at some point everyone has to decide to wean, and this is my decision.  One of my good friends nursed her daughter until later than I did and wrote a lot and thoughtfully about her decision to finally wean.  Another friend of mine is still nursing her 2+-year-old daughter even as she is expecting her second.  Others made it to six months and called it enough.  And they all made good decisions, in my opinion, because they made informed ones.  They all sought help and support and information when they wanted it or as they needed it, and then chose what to do with it.  I think that's what most "pro-breastfeeding" women want for each other.  There are those, I suppose, who really do judge others who don't breastfeed or don't breastfeed "long enough" by their estimation.  But I think most of us who have had good experiences just want the same for others, and so want others to have the help and support and information necessary to let that happen.  However, I'd like to think that any reasonable woman recognizes her experience is not the same as others, and that the decision to nurse or not, to wean and when, is each woman's alone.

So on this, the first day of World Breastfeeding Week, I say -- Go forth and nurse.  Nurse at home in the nursery and on your living room couch (in front of some show that your infant should certainly not be watching, for me Law and Order: SVU).  Nurse at the mall and in a restaurant.  Nurse for you and for your baby.  And if you choose not to, just make sure it's an informed choice and not one that results from lack of help or support or information.  And when you choose to wean, don't feel guilty about it for even one minute if it's the right time for you and your baby (knowing, even as I write this, that I felt a little guilty when I weaned Ollie and will again when I wean Emme).  And if breastfeeding was horrible for you, don't feel guilty about that either.  There's just only so much a person can handle, and no one should suffer through their baby's infancy because breastfeeding just sucks (pun intended).  And if breastfeeding was wonderful for you, tell others about it.  Tell you daughter about it (and your sons -- Ollie has definitely been a convert to breastfeeding!).  Because the more little girls (and boys) and teenage girls (and boys) and newly married women (and men) and newly pregnant women (and their husbands) hear about and see women breastfeeding -- the ups and downs, the initial struggles and eventual successes -- the more common it will be in society.  Which is, of course, the goal of World Breastfeeding Week.

Always on my mind

When my sister-in-law came to Chicago about three years ago for my baby shower, she was the mother of two young boys.  It was her first long weekend away from them, and while she enjoyed the chance to relax, see the city, and hang out with the ladies (my mom, sister, and I), it was clear that her boys were not far from her mind.  Every time she saw something they would love -- an El train, a helicopter, a Metra train, a city bus -- she would comment on it as though one of her kids were there with her and sometimes take a picture.

Now, two days into our vacation in San Diego, I totally get it.  Wes and I have called every tractor we've seen on this trip.  We even ate at a restaurant called The Tractor Room last night and took a picture of the big, old blue tractor out front.  We made a highlights reel of video footage from our walk through Balboa Park and sent it to my parents so Ollie could see all the things we thought he would've liked if he were here -- an airplane landing low over the park (the airport is right in the city), a large fountain, some theatrical performers, even a drummer.

Wes and I remind ourselves that while Ollie would certainly enjoy parts of this trip, others -- like the four-hour plane ride -- he would not.  And more to the point, there are many parts of this trip we wouldn't get to enjoy if he and Emme were here -- the long walks, the restaurants, even the chance to get some work done, like I did yesterday.  So we'll keep spotting tractors, taking pictures, and sleeping in -- because like all good things, vacations, too, come to an end.

Why I love having little kids

I can kiss them anytime I want to.

Like old times

The last few nights, Emmeline has been going down earlier in the evening.  She'll rub her eyes, fuss, and I put her in the swing.  Sometimes she's down for the night, sometimes just for a few hours before she eats again, but it does give me an hour or more before Oliver's bedtime to be with him. And on nights when Wes is working a shift, that's something extra special.  We play with Oliver's toys or he helps me with the dishes, and when it's time for bed, I can let him play in the bath for awhile and we read books before I tuck him in.  The first night I got to do this it reminded me of what life was like before Emmeline came, before I was pregnant even, trying to shield my abdomen from his exuberance and fighting nausea and exhaustion.  I love having Emmeline.  I wouldn't wish her away for a single second.  And there is nothing more special about my first child than my second.  But in those moments, when I'm blowing bubbles for him in the bathtub or letting him read me Blue Hat, Green Hat, it feels like old times.  

On pregnancy, the second time around

I said throughout my pregnancy that this time was harder, and now that Emmeline is here and almost four weeks old, I can look back and confirm that it was definitely a different experience that with my first.  I'm sure this is no surprise to anyone who's had more than one kid, and it's something that shows up on a lot of "what to expect the second time" lists.  I felt like this pregnancy was, more or less, just something to get through.  It was still special, it was still wonderful -- I just wished it'd lasted half as long and I could've skipped the part with Roy (who still hasn't gone home, I'm dismayed to say).  I loved, for the most part, having a posterior placenta and getting to feel her so much more -- except the nights that kept me from sleeping.  I loved getting to see Oliver experience the pregnancy, or whatever he thought it was, from his perspective.  I loved finding out it was a girl and getting to buy pink and purple clothes and redecorate the nursery.  But I didn't love the pregnancy the way I did the first time around.

When I got pregnant with Oliver, I was just excited to be pregnant.  The fact that I got to have a real live baby at the end of it was something I got excited about later.  This time, I just really wanted another baby.  The pregnancy was something I had to go through to get it.  I hope that Wes and I will be able to have more children, and if and when I get pregnant again, I will be thrilled.  I will get excited about the second line on the pregnancy test, feeling the first sensations of baby moving, seeing the heartbeat on the ultrasound, finding out the gender, washing and folding tiny baby clothes, and gearing up for labor.  But I think next time I'll, hopefully, realize that it's just going to be a little different and enjoy it for the differences, not expect so much of it and myself, I guess.

The one thing that isn't different, of course, is the joy and excitement of having that next baby, bringing her home, and folding her into our life.  Second pregnancies might not be as exciting as the first, but no doubt that second babies are.

Now or later

When Oliver was born with congenital cutis aplasia, Wes read a lot about the condition so that he would know more about its causes and treatment.  Ollie spent two days in the NICU getting antibiotics because I was GBS positive and didn't get the meds in labor, and the doctors were worried that the combination of open skin lesions and lack of antibiotics put him at higher risk for contracting Strep B.  Fortunately, he was just fine, and a series of ultrasounds and visits from pediatric neurologists and even a neurosurgeon confirmed that his head was completely normal -- he was just missing the skin in two places.  Today, he has two thick scars on the back of his head, hardly noticeable at quick glance because of his white-blonde hair.  He wears a hat in all weather when he's outside to protect the scars -- and his super-fair complexion -- from the sun.  A month or so ago, we saw the ENT for a follow-up on his tubes, and the surgeon helpfully referred us to -- and scheduled an appointment for us with -- a plastic surgeon who specializes in cranio-facial and other scalp malformations.  (Clearly within the realm of what an ENT should concern himself with.)  I cancelled the appointment as Wes and I had previously decided to wait to do anything about the scars until Ollie was a bit older.

When Emme was born two weeks ago, Wes and I immediately looked at the back of her head (and laughed at each other for doing so).  And very quickly, Wes noticed the lesion -- only one, much smaller, and already half formed over.  Another week or so in the womb, and she might have been born with almost nothing noticeable there.  We both were and weren't surprised.  Nothing we'd read suggested that this condition would repeat in subsequent children.  No one in either of our families has had this or anything like it.  But clearly, there's something in the mix of our DNA that causes this.  Fortunately, it's subcutaneous only.  Emme, however, was born with her own additional skin deformation.  She has several congenital nevi on her body -- one small but dark spot on her left shoulder, a very large, dark and mottled band on the top of her right foot and around her right ankle, and several satellite spots, much lighter, on her right calf.  We learned a little about them from the neonatologist who saw her right after her birth, and yesterday, upon a referral from her pediatrician, she saw a pediatric dermatologist, who told us a lot more.  (Random side note: Turns out the dermatologist (Class of '77), plus his resident (Class of '02 or '03), also went to Davidson.  Four adults in a dermatology clinic in Nashville, TN, and they all went to the same, very small college.  Strange, but less so when you consider how many academic physicians Davidson turns out.)

The biggest concern with the nevi is that they can become melanoma.  The incidence of melanoma among Caucasians is 1-2%.  Small cases of congenital nevi carry a risk of 3-5% by adulthood, with most cases occurring in adulthood.  Large cases carry a risk of 5-10% with 3-5% occurring before the age of ten.  This time, it seems, we won't be able to wait.  We've been referred to a plastic surgeon, whom we'll see next Friday, to talk about doing a procedure to remove at least the large nevus on her right foot and ankle, which is the area that poses the greater risk.  The dermatologist described the procedure generally.  She'll be put under some anesthesia and have a balloon implanted in the healthy skin just above the nevus.  It will then be filled with saline every week for several weeks to stretch the healthy skin, just like what happens when a woman's pregnant belly stretches for a growing baby.  Once there is enough healthy tissue available, she'll have a surgery to remove the nevus and replace it with the healthy skin.  I hate to think of her going through this, but from a medical standpoint, it's pretty straightforward and relatively low-risk and low-pain.  It also minimizes the scarring.  The small nevi we can either treat at the same time or just watch over the years to make sure there's no change in the texture or thickness, which would be an indication of melanoma forming.  Wes and I are hoping it can be done this summer, when I'm home with her full time, so that no other caregiver has to monitor her during the process.

Dr. Smith also talked to us a little about our options for Oliver's head.  He said that it's probably best to wait until 3 or 4 years old, when the skull is fully formed and the fontanel is completely closed.  He can then undergo a straight excision and suture of the two spots, which will leave him with tiny scars that will be hidden by hair.  (Right now, the hair grows around the scars, which are each about the size of a nickel, but doesn't cover them.  It make a really interesting hair pattern in back!).  The dermatologist said it's a good age to get it taken care of, before kids start to really pick up on those kinds of differences and tease each other.  So it's something we'll consider in a year or so.  Emmeline likely won't need anything at all done, as her spot is much smaller and won't scar as thickly because it was already forming in at birth.

I think it goes without saying that I think my kids are beautiful and don't think they need to do anything at all, now or later.  I hope that my children are secure enough to wear their differences proudly and see how amazing they are, inside and out.  However, I know what kids can be like and how difficult it can be on a child to have such noticeable differences.  I'm probably more attune to it for Emmeline as a girl, knowing how, at some age, she's likely to be embarrassed or not want to wear certain clothes or shoes because of what it shows.  Part of me wishes we could wait on all of this until later, when my kids could choose for themselves what they want done.  But realistically, Emme's nevi pose some health risks that we need to consider.  And Ollie's scars are probably better dealt with before he's really aware of them and at an age when kids heal so much faster.  Wes and I feel lucky that both Ollie and Em are so healthy, despite these strange congenital issues.  I hate the thought of either of them suffering to have them fixed, especially if only for aesthetic reasons, but then, I guess that's part of motherhood.

They say that labor is a marathon

But maybe pregnancy is more like other sports.  For example, temping and charting would be the off-season.  A pre-conception appointment would be like a scouting report.  Each pregnancy test is a round in the draft; even if you go late, a positive test means you made it.  First trimester is like spring training.  There's a chance you could still be let go or sent back to the minors, but the further in you make it, the lower the risk of that.  The first ultrasound is the first at-bat, all nerves, hoping things go well.  After that you're in a routine for a little while.  Then 20 weeks comes around with a halftime show: the anatomy scan.  You get to see a little flesh, heart-pouding excitement, and a little movement.  By the fourth quarter (30 weeks), you're ready to see how things are going to turn out.  And by the seventh inning (around 31 weeks), you really do need to stretch.  At the very end of it all, with a little blood, sweat, and tears, the game is over.  You may have to change your game plan depending on how things go, but one way or another, you get to your goal.  And therein lies the victory.

But then, that's mixing an awful lot of sport metaphors.

A letter to my son, on the occasion of his second birthday

My dearest Oliver,
Yesterday, you turned two years old.  I won't say, "I can't believe you're already two!" because I can.  I have literally watched you grow up in front of my eyes.  I have spent more time with you during your short life than any other person.  I was there when your heart started beating.  I was there when you took your first breath, took your first step, and said your first word.  I know almost everything there is to know about you.

You are one of the most amazing people I know.  You are kind and funny and happy and curious and very, very sweet.  You love your dad and me and Lucy.  You get so excited when daddy and I come and pick you up from daycare or come home at the end of the day.  You talk about Lucy from the moment I pick you up from daycare, and you have to give her a kiss at bedtime -- either her or her stuffed dog stand-in whom you've started sleeping with.  You love to see your grandmas and talk on the phone with your Aunt Laura, getting closer and closer to the phone as you talk.  You seem to like your other relatives, too, even if you're not sure who they are.  You like routine.  You're happiest when you know what is happening next, and as long as you know, you're usually okay with it.  You love, love bread.  Seriously.  I think you may like bread more than almost anything (well, maybe right now you like the tractor more, it's hard to say).  You cry when you finish your bread at night and can't have any more.  Seriously.

These days you have a lot to say.  Since you had your tubes put in, you've spoken more and more, but recently, you've become as talkative as your Aunt Laura.  From the time I pick you up in the afternoon until you sit down for dinner (when your mouth is full), you talk non-stop.  I only understand about half the words you say, but I love it when you talk to me.  You tell me ALL about your day.  You tell me where we're going ("Oliver's car") and what we're doing ("upstairs...mama's keys").  You try to repeat even hard words, and you have the funniest enunciation.  I wish I could freeze your words in a time capsule to release later in life, because I love the sound of them.  You have a funny laugh, a fake cry, and the most pathetic pouty lip I've ever seen in my life.  You're started to have tantrums -- just little ones -- and you drop or throw something, then stomp your feet.  It only lasts a minute or two, so it's not too bad, and it's the right age for it.  You wake up in a great mood every day.  This morning you met me at the door when I came upstairs, giggling at my mini-fingers, then ran to the diaper drawer to get your diaper and the wipes out.  You go to bed fine, too, with kisses all around after "two books" (which is usually three, at least).  You're learning to use the potty, though not perhaps as fast as daddy and I would like, but the process is funny to watch.

You are slowly learning to be with other people.  You started daycare last year when I went back to school, and now it's part of your day.  You have a little trouble going back after you've been home for a few days, and you're still getting used to your new classroom (it's hard to switch from "Anna and Ashli" to "Tanga and Mini," but you're learning).  You don't talk nearly as much around other people as you do at home, but that's okay.  Your dad's the same way.  You mimic other people a lot.  Just tonight you licked your fingers off after I did the same.  You read books the same way as me (and love books as much as I do), and you play with your toys with the same focus as your dad has when he works.  You are a very busy guy most days.  You like cars and trucks and tractors and your lawnmower and tools.  You like your pots and pans and baby doll, but maybe not as much.  You've started to watch little bits of Sesame Street and ask for "Big Bird" when you get tired.  You know what the word "patient" means and "careful."  You give me hugs when I ask for them.  You answer every question with "no" -- but nicely.  You like it when daddy swings you by your arms and legs onto the bed, and recently you really like juice (watered down, but still, "juice").  You like to help -- with the vacuum, the laundry, or feeding the dog.

In a few months, things will change at home.  You won't be the only special person in the house anymore.  You'll have a baby sister then.  She'll cry and have to sit in my lap a lot and take up a lot of attention.  I think you'll be curious about her at first.  I think you'll want her to be quiet sometimes or to not have to share your toys sometimes.  But I also think you'll really like her.  I think you'll want to give her kisses and tickle her feet.  I think you'll read books to her like you do for Lucy and laugh when she starts to smile at you and babble.  I don't know what you'll think of her when you're older, but your daddy and I hope, a lot, that you'll like each other and want to see each other still, even when you don't have to.

There have been so many times over the past two years that I've wanted to stop time and keep you just as you are.  But I can't and I won't.  I will miss the baby I gave birth to, the one whose face I still see when you fall asleep in the car or snuggle your head on my shoulder when you don't feel well.  And soon enough, I fear, I will miss the feel of your little hand gripped tightly around my finger when we walk places.  But with that will come new things, I think.  It's clear I'm biased, but it's fair to say that you just keep getting better.  I like you more and more every day, and I can't imagine it getting still better -- but I hope it will.  You are truly the delight of my life, and your father's, too.  You have made parenting more fun than we ever imagined it would be.  You are not the only thing in our lives, but you are for sure the most important one.  We both love you, very, very much and always will.

So keep growing, little boy.  Keep laughing and playing and talking and throwing temper tantrums.  Keep amazing us.  You've captured the hearts of almost everyone I know, and my guess is you'll continue to do it for a long time.  You most certainly forever have mine.

You will always be my little boy, my firstborn, my baby.  With love, your mama

"Mama go?"

This semester, since I have a full day of classes on Wednesday, Wes is in charge of Oliver for the day.  He gets him up, to daycare, and home in the evening.  We've done this for two weeks now, and both weeks I got the same story upon returning home just before Oliver's bedtime.  Wes wakes him up in the morning, and Oliver walks around all morning, upset, hands up in the air, saying "Mama go?" and looking for me.  He's not upset when Wes picks him up from daycare, though he is awfully excited to see me when I get home at night.  Wes has tried to explain to him "Mama's at work" or "Mama's at school," but neither of those really make sense to him.  "Dada" goes to work (in fact, that was one of his first phrases: "Dada work," the only alternative to which is "Dada bed") and Oliver goes to school, but Mama does neither of these things -- until recently (though I've done both in his lifetime.  He just wasn't old enough to process it).

Wes is trying to take advantage of this issue to make Oliver a little less dependent on me for his sense of security and a little more accepting of him.  Oliver routinely will seek me out over Wes when he is hungry, wet or poopy, sick, sleepy, or just generally in need or want of something.  Wes is LOTS of fun to play with, and Oliver will mimic his every move, but he's not the one that supplies the routine to the day.  It's not a matter of me running to comfort him when he's hurt whereas Wes lets himself dust himself off.  In fact, we're pretty similar in our tendency to stand back in those situations (though I'm certainly more responsive to his needs, but that's Wes's tendency with everything in our home life, not just Ollie).  I think Wes realizes that with the new baby coming, Ollie is going to need to understand the idea of mom not being able to do everything he needs, at least not right away, and that dad might be a suitable alternative.

It's nice to feel wanted.  It's perhaps one of the most wonderful parts of motherhood -- having this thing that completely and totally needs you and, as it grows older, starts to realize that.  It's part of what makes it hard to let go and give your kid more independence, though that's wonderful in its own way, helping them develop that skill and knowing you were part of it.  This next year will be an experience in both, and it's nice to have Wes so very much committed to making it easier for me.

Are you a mother?

I went to a local coffee shop, The Frothy Monkey, before the zoo today to get some hot chocolate for Rachel and me. Even though the shop is very close and has great hot chocolate, I rarely go. The line gets long most weekend mornings, and I usually drink tea when I want something hot, which I can make perfectly well at home. So I took the cool weather and the outing as an excuse to indulge.

When I got to the register, I was a little surprised (despite the day) to be asked, "Are you a mother?" I had Oliver with me, so I guess it wasn't that invasive. And the guy was asking because the shop was giving moms their drinks for free, so he was trying to help me out. But still.

I have enough people in my life who have dealt with or are dealing with infertility to be worried about the practice of asking middle-aged women who come in for coffee on Mother's Day, "Are you a mother?" What if the answer is, "No"? What if the answer is, "No, but I've wish I were" or "I want to be"? What if the answer is, "No, but I don't know if I ever can be"? What if the answer is, "No, and I really wish people would stop asking me when I will be"?

Last week was National Infertility Awareness Week. And I just want to say that, while my blog is focused on my (thus far) fertility, for which I am truly thankful, and the product of it, I want to make sure that everyone I know also knows about the many, many people who are dealing with infertility and how their mood and day can be affected by even the smallest question. I've asked some dumb ones myself, said the wrong thing, and felt like a real jerk later on. They key, I think, as with almost everything, is to become more knowledgeable, try to become more thoughtful, and just, well, be aware.

Crap

*Note: Do not read this post while eating or if you're thinking about having kids soon but not really sure about it or if you're pregnant and a little afraid of what parenthood will be like.  This is not for the faint of heart.

I have spent a significant amount of time recently removing bodily output from Oliver and his crib.  Last weekend he had a stomach bug, and I changed endless crib sheets, gave endless baths, and did endless loads of laundry.  I was lucky enough to get the bug, too, along with a nasty cold that has left me completely hoarse and coughing a bit, but I've just had varying degrees of nausea and no actual vomiting. 

Due to the congestion, post-nasal drip, coughing, sore throat, and general achiness, I slept poorly last night.  So when I heard Oliver start to stir, I didn't get up right away.  I waited for the plaintiveness in his sounds to start up, and ultimately fell back to sleep for probably an hour.  I finally dragged myself out of bed and went upstairs.  When I opened the door, the first thing I noticed (other than the heat and the stench) was little clumps of brown mixed with corn on the floor by the crib.  And then I kept looking.  There was poop on the crib -- all over the crib, in fact -- and on Oliver.  He had it in his hair, on his face, caked to his hands, and all over his pajamas.  The diaper it seemed, had come lose in the night, and there was poop everywhere.  Wes, naturally, is working a 7-3 shift today, so he was off at work.  I tackled Oliver first, rinsing him, then rinsing the bathtub, then bathing him, then scouring the bathtub.  I paged Wes, who assured me that even if he had ingested it, the worst it would do was make him sick to his stomach (ah, yes, something more to look forward to).  I gave him breakfast, started a load of poopy laundry, and then went back upstairs.  I put up the baby gate at the doorway to the nursery so Oliver could play in the hallway and other bedroom while I worked.  I scrubbed the crib for probably 20 minutes to get it all off and sanitized, then decided to tackle the upstairs and give the bathroom a good overall cleaning.

He ate lunch eagerly and is now upstairs lamenting his midday nap.  As for me, I'll just be happy to get rid of the smell of poop from my house.

My wish

I wish I could freeze time. Not this exact moment, mind you. Oliver has been in bed for two hours and is now crying, and I fear I may have to intervene to get him back to sleep. So I don't want to freeze this moment in time, just this general stage of his life. I know the fussy, cranky, temper-tantrum terrible twos or threes is coming. But today, watching Oliver stick his head in a box or crab across the hearth of the fireplace, I wished he could always be like this. When Wes left for work, he kissed us both, and right after he left, Oliver turned and tried to kiss me, too. I love watching him play on the floor, stacking blocks or rolling his truck or mimicking something we've done. He looks up at me and smiles with all his dimples showing. I'm afraid it's all going too fast, that I'll look up and he'll be a teenager.

I don't really want to keep him small, of course. Watching him grow and learn and develop new skills is most of what makes it so much fun. Still, if I were going to pick one age to leave him at, this seems like a pretty good one.

On weaning

My mother often recounts how her first few visits to my father's family farm always seemed to fall around weaning time, when mother cows and baby calves are separated so that mom's milk (and some calves) can be sold. This event, I am told, is not a quiet time on the farm, as mothers and babies bleat for one another, the mother full of milk, they baby missing mom.

Thankfully, weaning time at our house was not so eventful. On my first day of classes, just about a month ago, I stopped nursing (and did not resume pumping) during the day. Oliver got frozen breastmilk in a bottle while at daycare (hurray for 300 ounces on dry ice that successfully moved with us from Chicag0). The following week, he got a blend of breastmilk and cow's milk, organic with DHA. I continued to nurse in the morning and at night, which proved helpful as I nursed him during night-wakings caused by his virus and ear infections. His last nursing session was at night, just a few days before his first birthday, and he drank the last of the frozen breastmilk the evening before his first birthday. My mission to breastfeed (or feed him breastmilk) for one whole year was finally accomplished.

The physical part of weaning was easier than I thought it would be. Oliver transitioned without complaint; so long as he gets his milk, he doesn't seem to mind whether it's mommy's milk or from one of the Happy Cows in California. My breasts also seemed to transition with little protest. There was some discomfort when I dropped the daytime feedings in one fell swoop, but otherwise, my body made the change with little protest. I continued to use nursing pads during the day and slept in sports bras at night, just in case.

I must admit that there's a certain freedom to being not pregnant and not nursing for the first time in 21 months. I can take medication without first consulting a physician, I can drink alcohol without mentally allocating expressed milk for specific feeding times, I can feed Oliver without my chest ending up noticeably lopsided (he did one side per feeding by the time he was 10-12 weeks). I bought two new bras on Sunday, and I rather fancy the way I look in them. It was, as my mother used to joke, an uplifting experience.

I am thankful that I was able to nurse for a full year and feel a small sense of pride in having met this milestone. It is no small sacrifice of time and, looking at the gallons of milk Ollie now goes through in a week, no small feat by my body. At the same time, I would not have felt any less successful as a mother had I only done it for a short time. Like my birth experience, it was a goal, but one that was negotiable and did not define my self-concept as a mother.

I was a bit surprised by the emotions I felt as the nursing sessions ended and the bags of milk began to disappear from the freezer. I really expected to get very emotional and teary at Oliver's birth. Maybe it was the fact that we were separated so quickly, but I didn't have that moment. I was elated to see him and hold him, but it just felt right, nothing more. I did not expect -- at all -- to be emotional about weaning or even him turning one, but I absolutely did. Ollie and I spent so much time together nursing in his first year. It was something we both struggled with at first and had to work on. It was something that made him feel better when he was hungry or upset, protected him from sicknesses now and in the future. And not unimportantly, it contributed to the 30-pound weight loss I have enjoyed since getting pregnant.

I have no doubt that I will try to repeat this with each of my children, realizing it will not be as easy to stay in a chair non-stop for a hungry infant when a heedless toddler (I dunno, who could that be?) is torturing the dog several feet away. But I hope, for all our sake, I get to try.