The 6-month decision

My daughter is 6 months old today. I’m just getting used to referring to “my daughter” and she’s already sitting up, rolling over, and refusing to eat the food I offer her. (It must be a genetic thing. I’m starting to feel bad for all the years I threw fits about the cooked spinach my mother offered me. Although in my defense, cooked spinach is rarely fit for human consumption.)

In general, I’m not a huge fan of monthly milestones, but this one is worth writing about for a specific reason. This was the deadline I gave myself for breastfeeding – for stopping, that is. As many of you know, I’ve had a hard time of it. Not as hard as some, but not as easy as others. I managed to avoid cracked nipples (two words no one EVER wants to hear in the same sentence, or even in close proximity to each other), but I’ve had a number of blocked ducts, and two or three rounds of mastitis, lasting a total of almost 6 weeks. My milk supply has never been good, but daily doses of Fenugreek have helped. The only saving grace in all this mess is that I have managed to avoid smelling like a maple syrup factory. Thank g-d for small favors, right? (In case you’re curious, Fenugreek is a galactagogue, my favorite breast-feeding related word. APNO is my favorite nursing-related acronym. It stands for all-purpose nipple ointment. Good stuff.)

Anyway, back to the 6 month deadline. On my hardest days of nursing, especially back at the beginning when F was feeding for 40 minutes at a time, every 2 hours, around the clock (giving me about an hour and a half off between nursing sessions), I told myself that I only had to make it to 6 months. When I had mastitis, and pain would shoot down my breast each time she latched on, I counted the weeks left. As I watched my nipple get sucked into the plastic tube of my breast pump time and time again only to get 3 measly ounces, I told myself I only had to make it to 6 months. 6 months became my mantra.

Well, here I am, and I have a decision to make. I thought I would be ready to quit, but I’m not. I’d like to tell you that I have all sorts of lofty reasons for continuing, because it’s good for F (although how good is up for debate) or because it’s good for me, but those aren’t the reasons. The real reason is because I’m just too damn lazy to quit.

It’s true. I’m just too damn lazy.

You see, the nursing has gone pretty well (knock on wood) for the past several weeks. F is now sucking down a meal in 15 minutes or less, she’s sleeping through the night, and she only eats every 2 ½ – 3 hours during the day, which is great. I haven’t had any blocked ducts or mastitis, and the Fenugreek seems to keep the milk flowing. (I’ve been trying to give her solid food every day, but I might as well dump the strained pears and mashed sweet potatoes directly into the pocket on her plastic bib – it would be much faster, neater, and achieve the same result. She’s just not ready to eat, so she nurses a lot.)

Now, before you think I’m loving the nursing, I’m not. First of all, I hate pumping. I’m just going to come right out and say it. I hate it. I can’t remember experiencing anything as degrading in a long time. (You know something is truly humiliating when you feel humiliated even when you’re completely alone.) I don’t think I could feel more like a cow if I suddenly developed 4 stomachs. It’s terrible, and I hate it, so while I may not be ready to put these boobs away completely, I am ready to put the pump away. Hurrah!

The other major downside to nursing is the effect on my breasts. (This might be more information than you want, but that’s sort of my gig, in case you hadn’t noticed. I’m over it, so you should be too.) Anyway, the point is that my boobs have gotten HUGE, and not in a Pamela-Anderson-look-they-salute-everyone-they-meet sort of way. It’s really more of a Maya-Angelou-they’re-in-a-race-to-see-which-one-reaches-my-waist-first sort of thing. (Man, that sound so much better coming from her. Oh well, if the shoe fits, right?)

But the bottom line is that as long as I’m healthy, the nursing is just so easy. I don’t have to stress about bringing formula and clean bottles with me, and I don’t have to carry jars of baby food or finger foods everywhere we go. I don’t worry about having a place to put her while I feed her. I just find a place to sit down, and voila! Appetizers, entrée, and dessert, and the cleanup is so easy. When she was new, I was anxious and modest about nursing, careful to use a cover up whenever anyone other than my husband or mom was in the room. Now I’ll nurse her anywhere – at the zoo (the llamas couldn’t have been less interested), the park (the toddlers were a little curious, but were soon distracted by a much perkier, firmer rubber ball), Saturday morning services (and yes, I was more than a little creeped out by the strange woman who commented on how much she enjoyed the sound of F sucking and slurping away), at the dinner table – you name it, I’ll feed her.

Like I said, nursing is just easier, and I’m lazy. So I guess she’ll be boobing it for a few more weeks, at least.

I’m just going to bitch a bit, ok?

In my previous post, I said I was going to spare you the details of my cold.  Well, I lied.  I feel like crap and I feel like bitching, so in no particular order, here goes:

• This cold isn’t playing fair.  Usually it starts in the throat and invades either to the north (sinuses) or the south (chest and lungs).  This time it attacked on all fronts, including east and west (both ears).  If there were a Geneva Convention for antibiotic-resistant illnesses, this cold would be in full violation.

• Nursing when you have a cold just plain sucks.  When you’re sick, you want to curl up in a fetal position and moan softly to yourself, When-Harry-Met-Sally-style.  The last thing you want to do is attach an infant land-shark to your boobs (actually, in my family we call them Jewbs) so she can methodically drain what’s left of your weakened soul in 8-minute segments, 3-4 sucks at a time.

• Even worse, I can’t take cold medicine.  Normally when faced with symptoms as bad as these, I drug the crap out of myself until I have the functionality of a drunk zombie.  For the past 14 months, I’ve been limited to ibuprofen, neti-potting, and one measly dose of antihistamine at night.

• Finally, you would think that having this cold would exempt me from all baby-related duties.  And it almost does.  My husband has been amazing – he cleaned out the entire kitchen for Pesach (usually my job), started cooking for the Seder (definitely not my job, but he still gets points for starting so early), took F for a walk yesterday, and plays with her whenever possible.  But the reality is, when she’s tired or fussy, she’s more quickly soothed in my arms.  (That’s not to say her Daddy can’t soothe her – he definitely can – it’s just a faster process with me.)  And honestly, who can blame her?  When I’m fussy, I would love nothing better than to snuggle up to three soft, squishy pillows (by which I mean my firm, perky breasts and 6-pack abs, of course) that smell like my mother’s pasta with meat sauce and brownie ala mode all in one.  But when I’m sick, it’s hard to remember to sanitize my hands every time I blow my nose , or always cough into my right elbow, as F prefers to bury her head in my left one.  Left to my own devices, I’d much rather wallow in my own germs and filth, drunk-zombie style.

• Now, the truth is, things aren’t totally horrible.  My daughter is healthy. (She seems to have inherited her father’s immune system, rather than the lemon I got.  Apparently G-d was playing used-car-salesman on the day I was born… and now the warranty is up.)  My husband is cleaning , cooking, and feeding me.  I made a library run last week so I have plenty of books.  Really, other than the copious amounts of snot I’m producing and the various side-effects associated with the aforementioned production, things aren’t that bad.  But I still want to bitch about it.

Lazy blogger

Not only am I a lazy blogger, but I am also considering becoming a lazy parent.  Well, I guess I should say a lazy-er parent.  You can read about the benefits of lazy parenting here.  (Footnote to Tobia for sharing the article with me.)

In my ongoing efforts to increase my laziness, I am also going to steal someone else’s blog entry for today.  My friend Lizzie did a great job describing what they don’t tell you about the immediate aftermath of childbirth.  (Don’t read this if you are on the fence about having a baby… or if you want to want to have a baby, but aren’t there yet.  You know who you are!)