The Silent "I"

World Breastfeeding Week

This past week was World Breastfeeding Week, but I've been so caught up in work, planning a birthday party, and recovering from my last round of illness that I almost let it go by without mention. I received a couple of interesting press releases and information on this topic that I wanted to share here.  The first was this interview clip from Julie Menin's Give and Take.  In this clip from the interview series, CNN host Campbell Brown talks about motherhood, work-life balance, and looking for role models for working moms.  One particularly resonant anecdote is the one she tells about pumping, and express mailing breastmilk to her husband when she moderated a Presidential Debate. The full interview can be seen in four parts at Julie Menin's website, and will air on select cable channels.

I also received information from a marketing program aimed at increasing awareness by giving out information and breast-feeding friendly supplies as new moms are discharged from the hospital.  When Alex was born 9 years ago, I got not one but two diaper bags from the hospital chock full of...formula.  I thought it was a nice gift, but I was set on breastfeeding.  The only information on breastfeeding I got was some strong encouragement from the nurses and an instruction to watch a video.  Several painful, exhausting weeks later, I threw up my hands and went to see a lactation consultant, but felt like an utter failure.  Eventually, I figured out how to do it without making my toes curl from the pain, but it would have been helpful to have some additional information and supplies.

This has been the norm for a number of years now, so I was pleased to see that an alternative is now available.  The breastfeeding-friendly version of the discharge bag is called the Healthy Baby Bounty Bag.  Starting this month, the bag will be distributed in approximately 200 hospitals across the country, to about 300,000 new moms.  The bag contains milk storage bags, disposable nipple pads, samples, coupons, and information on breastfeeding.  The bags are sponsored by Lansinoh, makers of a lanolin cream that I could not live without when Alex was an infant.

I asked if this would be available at Lucile Packard Children's Hospital at Stanford, our local hospital, but unfortunately, it is not.  This might be a good project for our local Palo Alto & Menlo Park Parents' Club to take on.  I hope these bags will help other moms ease into breastfeeding a little smoother than I did.

 

 

Teaching Compassion

Alex was watching the "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles" movie while I was cooking dinner last night.  A commercial came on for a program to help kids in third world countries.  It featured a story of a family with several children, one of whom sometimes opts to go hungry so his little brother can have food.  Normally, Alex doesn't watch commercials, since the magic that is Tivo allows us to fast forward through all those sugary cereals and Bratz dolls ads.  This time, he watched this commercial intently, and ran in to tell me about it.

"Mom! There are kids who don't have food or parents! They don't have schools or medicine!  I need to help them!"  he said.

I asked him if he got the number or the website.  He went back and got his dad to back up the Tivo so he could write down the number.  The next thing I knew, he was on the phone.

"Hello?  I'm calling to help the poor children.  How much does it cost?"  he said.  "Well, my dad is here and he has the money."  My husband got on the phone and found out that the group is called Plan USA, and for $24 a month, you can sponsor a child in a third world country.  They send letters and updates from the kids periodically.  They asked what country we wanted the child to be from, and Alex thought about it.  "Egypt," he said.  He wanted to sponsor a boy from Egypt.

Alex got back on the phone to ask a question.  "When will he be coming to our house?" he said.  They explained that he would not be coming to our house, but we could go visit him.  Alex loved Egypt, so I think he now wants to go back.

Frank hung up the phone and we realized that we knew absolutely nothing about this group or what they did, so we Googled them.  We found a blog post on Mortaine's Blog from a woman who has sponsored several children through Plan USA for 15 years.  It was very reassuring.  I wrote a comment, and she e-mailed me that she was about Alex's age when she first saw the ads for Plan USA and decided to help.  It was one of the best things she has ever done, she said.  After reading her post, we all got very excited about the prospect of hearing about the child.

Over dinner, we talked about what sponsoring this boy meant.  Alex said, "I want to help the poor people not be poor.  Maybe he will find a family, if he's an orphan.  Maybe he'll get medicine if he's sick."

We talked about a boy we met two years ago visiting the Great Sphinx at Giza.  He wore ragged clothes, and the soles of his shoes were barely hanging on.   His smudged little face was streaked with tears, and his older brother was yelling at him.  He was about 7, the age Alex is now.  He was not in school, even though it was a weekday.  He was selling old postcards to tourists for change.  We bought his postcards, and he smiled.  Alex called him his friend.  When they parted, Alex said, "Don't be sad, I love you."  I'm pretty sure the boy did not speak English, but it didn't matter. 

Alex remembered him when I brought it up, though vaguely, and was happy that he was now going to help a child like his postcard seller friend. 

People have often asked us why we have traveled so much with Alex.  The reasons are partly selfish (we love traveling), and partly because we want to educate him that not everyone in the world has the advantages that he has.  Some people have more, but many, many people have less.  Giving him the sense that he can make a difference is a harder lesson, but somehow, I think he's learned it.

Sometimes, Breastfeeding Sucks

Thursday, December 6 is Breastfeeding Day on the Silicon Valley Moms Blog, Chicago Moms Blog, DC Metro Moms Blog and newly-launched NY City Moms Blog.  Check out all the entries.  This is my story, and I'm sticking to it.

When I was pregnant with my son, there was a mini-baby boom in my office.  That year, no less than five women gave birth, which was pretty remarkable considering that only 22 people worked in the office at the time.  Of the preggos, four of us were committed to breastfeeding, and one decided early on that she would not, under any circumstances, breastfeed her baby.  Her rationale was that she had given over her body for 9 months to this baby, and that was her limit.  She wanted her body back and that was that.

Around the watercooler, this became a topic of ongoing conversation.  No amount of research (she was herself a trained biologist) or emotional appeals about mother-child bonding would sway her.  I'm pretty much a "to each her own" kind of gal, but this was puzzling to me. 

I entered into the breastfeeding business a bit naively, I must admit.  I had this vision of a blissful scene of mother and baby bonding and gazing lovingly at each other in blissed-out harmony.  I thought, "How hard could it be?" and defiantly scoffed at the training video provided by the hospital. 

When the moment of truth arrived, I was a little stymied by what to do.  I put the baby to the breast, careful not to rest him on my C-section incision. Instead of latching, he struggled for a bit, gave up and screamed bloody murder for half an hour.  I tried different positions and holds, but nothing worked.  He screamed, then I cried.  My husband looked helplessly on at the two of us, bawling our eyes out.

Brother, Can You Spare a $20?

We were driving home this afternoon, after shopping for some office supplies and replacing Alex's reading glasses.  As we were stopped at a red light, there was a man holding a sign that said, "Need Money.  Have cancer.  Can't work." 

The man was dressed in rags, and he was hunched over and looked like he should have been in a hospital.  I reached for my purse, about the time Frank said, "Do you think we should give him something?"

From the back seat, Alex said, "I think we should give him something."  I pulled out a couple of dollars, and Frank handed it to him.  He said, "Thank you.  I need to get some shelter because it is too cold to sleep outside."  We wished him good luck, and pulled forward.

"How much did you give him?" Alex asked.  I told him that I gave the many $2, and Alex shouted, "I cannot believe you gave him $2!  He needs shelter!  He is someone I care about and you only gave him two! dollars!" 

Frank asked him how much we should have given the man, and Alex said, "If I had $20, I'd give it to him.  I care about him.  I care about everyone in the world.  He has no home and no shelter.  We have a home and  shelter!  We should give him more."  He started crying, as if to say that he was terribly, terribly ashamed of having us for parents.

I like to think that I am a fairly generous person.  I give to charities and volunteer when I can for various things.  Today, my child let me know exactly how un-generous I am.  Maybe if we all felt like Alex and cared a little more for our fellow man, this man wouldn't need to sleep out in the cold. 

School Days

Parents in Palo Alto are notoriously involved in their kids education, perhaps overly so.  There's a sense that if your child doesn't go to the right pre-school, or the right elementary school, they will not get into Stanford or one of the Ivies and be doomed to a lifetime of asking, "Paper or plastic?"

I went to a parenting lecture once by a local physician who said something along the lines of, "It's as though we're setting out kids up to go to do well in school so they go to the right college, to get into the right grad school, to get the right job, so that maybe they'll be happy when they're 34.  What about teaching them to be happy right now?  Teaching them to appreciate what's in front of them and not being so focused on what's ahead?"

Halloween Post-Mortem

Number of pumpkins carved: 2
Number of pumpkins left uncarved that will undoutedly remain on the porch until Easter: 1
Time it took for 7 year old to select Ninja costume:  3 weeks, 4 days, 47 minutes
Time it took to lose the Ninja mask part of costume:  10 seconds
Time spent looking for missing Ninja mask:  40 minutes
Pieces of candy acquired while trick-or-treating:  468
Number of cavities of in 7 year old mouth up until now: 0
Potential number of cavities if all candy is eaten before next dentist visit:  20
Number of trick-or-treaters presenting themselves at our door:  20
Number of pieces of candy left over due to dearth of trick-or-treaters:  327
Number of un-costumed teenagers appearing at the door: 0 (down 700% from last year)
Number of infants in bee costumes appearing at the door, carried by parents: 2
Number of children dressed as that guy from "Scream" coming to the door:  7 (35%)
Number of children dressed as a Math Textbook coming to the door:  1
Episodes of "Dancing with the Stars" watched while waiting for Trick-or-Treaters:  2
Number of tears shed for Cheetah girl getting booted off the show:  0
Calories consumed by mom waiting for trick-or-treaters who never came:  3,476
Number of happy, maskless ninja warriors in this household: 1

Can't wait to do it again next year!

Blog Day for The MOTHERS Act

Today, as part of the BlogHers Act movement, mothers and others across the country encouraged to call their U.S. Senators and urge their support of The MOTHERS Act, important, needed legislation to provide services to women suffering from postpartum depression (PPD).  The MOTHERS Act stands for "The Mom’s Opportunity To Access Help, Education, Research, and Support" for Postpartum Depression Act.

The MOTHERS Act (S. 3529) is a Senate Bill sponsored by U.S. Senators Robert Menendez (D-NJ) and Richard Durbin (D-IL) and will ensure that new moms and their families are educated about PPD, screened for symptoms, and provided with essential services.  It will also increase research into the causes, diagnoses and treatments for postpartum depression by a program of grants.

Postpartum depression is a serious and disabling condition that affects approximately 800,000 American women each year.  However, only about 15 percent of these women receive any assessment or treatment for the condition.  Postpartum depression can occur anytime during pregnancy or within the first year after childbirth. A woman may have a number of symptoms such as sadness, lack of energy, trouble concentrating, anxiety, and feelings of guilt and worthlessness. The difference between postpartum depression and the "baby blues" is that postpartum depression often affects a woman’s well-being and prevents her from functioning well for a longer period of time.  Postpartum psychosis is a rare and more severe form of perinatal mood disorders, and is covered under The MOTHERS Act as well.

That Old Devil Moon

Last night, between about 2 and 4 am, there was a lunar eclipse that produced a red moon.  I know this because I read about it online earlier in the day, and because I was awake at 3 am to witness this magical sight.  The funny thing was, my entire family saw it, too.

I have bouts of insomnia.  Last night, I was fretting over something bad that happened yesterday, unable to quiet some inner voices telling me that I had let my son down in a big way. 

I finally tried to get some sleep around 2:30 am, when suddenly, Frank sat bolt upright in bed, then headed out the door.  I thought he might be going to the bathroom, but when he didn't come back for ten minutes, I thought he might have gone to check on Alex or had an uncommon bout of sleepwalking.  Just when I was about to go look for him, he came back and went back to bed.

When he returned, I noticed Alex coming out of the bathroom.  I got up to see if he was having bad dreams or if he needed anything.  He said he was fine, but couldn't sleep.  I think he was nervous about the first day of second grade.

I remembered the eclipse and asked him if he wanted to see the red moon with me.  He said, "Cool!"

We walked outside in our pajamas and bare feet and stared up at the sky from our driveway.  We don't live on a busy street, so it seemed unlikely we would be seen.  We stared up at the sky together, holding hands and looking at the red mist covering the moon, called the October Blood Moon.  It looked like a hazy red balloon lost in the night sky.

Alex and I stood looking at the marvel in the sky for a few minutes, holding hands.  We went back in and went to bed, and he fell asleep quickly between Frank and me, just like when he was a baby.  I'm sure he's probably tired today, for the first day of school.  But, I think that little trip outside to see something marvelous in the night sky was entirely worth it.

Seven

Alex: I'm sooo happy I finally lost my front teeth! 
Me:  Why is that?
Alex:  Because now I'll get my man-teeth!
Me:  But how will you eat corn on the cob?
Alex: You can cut it for me.
Me:  Apples?
Alex:  You can make applesauce.
Me: You have it all figured out, don't you?
Alex:  Don't worry.  It's only temporary.
Me:  Isn't everything?

Alex turned seven on Sunday.  Seven.  Wait, wasn't it day before yesterday the doctor handed him to me, a big bundle of 10 lb, 9 oz baby boy?  Wasn't it yesterday that he crawled, then walked, then ran and never stopped for a moment since? 

This year, Alex learned to read, learned to do a handstand, mastered his kung fu yellow and orange belts, taught his class about mummies and pharoahs, lost four teeth, and grew to be over four feet tall.  He cut his own hair under the desk at school when the teacher wasn't looking, and decided definitively that he no longer like sweet potatoes. 

He is a teller of tales and an actor, a natural performer with no fear of being front and center. He learned hip-hop dancing and subtraction and how to color inside the lines. He made friends in the neighborhood and in far-off places like Greenland and Hawaii.  He challenged us and showered us with affection, and always, always kept our lives full of love and hope.

This year, the traces of the sweet baby face receded, and the face of a child emerged, with glimpses of the teenager and the young man we will face in the future.  The man-teeth, I fear, are only the beginning of all the changes yet to come.

When Alex was about a year old, I was talking to a dad who had a three year-old.  "Does it get any easier?" I asked.

"No," he said, "it just gets different."

I know what he meant now.  Parenting never really gets easier, the challenges just evolve from year to year.  It's the joy that remains constant.

Happy Birthday, Alex.  Thank you for the seven best and hardest years of my life.

Showdown at the Shopping Center

You're standing in the middle of a crowded shopping center, dragging your kid along as you run in to just pick up a baby shower gift.  Your kid stops, inexplicably and demands ice cream right now.  You tell him, in your calmest grown-up mommy voice that no, ice cream is not in the plan and that ice cream will spoil his dinner.  He plants his feet, and screams at the top of his lungs, "But I'm staaaarving!  You never feed me!"

You do what the parenting manuals and pre-school teachers have taught you:  get down on his level, tell him in a calm, but firm voice, that he is not getting ice cream, offer him the emergency baggie of granola in your purse to tide him over, and tell him that ice cream is not a good choice right now.

He keeps yelling and is on the verge of a Code Orange Meltdown, so you pull out the next trick in your bag of parenting tricks:  bribery.  You tell him, "If you calm down and we finish our errand, we'll see about having some ice cream for dessert."

He's not taking the bait.  He wants his ice cream and he wants it now.

He starts crying.  He yells that you are the meanest mommy in the whole entire wide world, because you know, he knows all the mommies, has done a scientific research study (including a control group of child-free advocates) and clinically proven that you are the worst mommy ever.  No other mommy would be so mean as to deprive her starving child of ice cream, that nectar of the gods brought down from Mt. Olympus to nourish the souls and bellies of beleaguered children everywhere.  No other mommy would attempt to drag her boy child through the Macy's Infant Wear department for half an hour to look at pink layettes and babywear.  You now hold the title of "Meanest Mommy in the World" and there is no denying it.  You wonder if there is a big, jewel-encrusted belt buckle that goes along with the title that you can lord over the other mommies.

You try to reason with him, and when that doesn't work, decide to scrap your shopping plans.  You take his hand and try to lead him out toward the car and away from the crowds, but he remains firmly planted.  You try picking him up, but his bones suddenly dissolve and he becomes Noodle Boy, 8th Wonder of the World, straight from the pages of Ripley's Believe it or Not!   He goes limp, making his body density increase by a factor of four.  He starts wailing and screaming, and by now, a small crowd has gathered to watch the show.

You continue in your calm I-am-in-charge-here way, but you start to sweat from the pressure of the crowd and their penetrating, judgemental stares, along with the physical challenge of carrying a child who now seems to weigh more than the Heavyweight Champion of the world.  You sling him under your arm in an attempt to carry him to the car. 

After repeating, "No" for the 247th time, you open your mouth and a familiar voice comes out loud and clear, "Keep it up, mister and I'll give you something to cry about!"

The words escape from your mouth and seem to form an bubble over your head, like a comic book villain's expletive after being hit by a superhero's gamma ray eyes.

Your child stops crying and stares blankly up to you through ever-widening red eyes, as if to say, "Who are you, Alien Lady, and what have you done with my nice mommy?"

The older people in crowd nod in tacit approval, while the young parents and non-parents gasp in horror at your  totally old school approach to parenting.  They are so much more enlightened than you.  They consider calling Child Protective Services to report Mean Mommy on a Rampage.  They would never threaten their kids with corporal punishment.  They would never yell at their kid in public.  They would have bought the ice cream and been Nice Mommy. 

You know that's exactly what they are thinking, not because you are psychic, but because that's what you used to think...about your own mother.  You vowed you wouldn't be like her, and now you hear her voice, her words, escape your lips involuntarily.  You have become her.  You wanted to somehow rise above and learn from her mistakes.  Now you understand.

You hug your child and shrug it off, and the two of you walk in silence to the car. 

You go home and call your mom.