Pregnant Pause

Unmade in China

Pregnant Pause — Mon, 01 Dec 2008 04:42:00 GMT

New Year’s Day may be a mere month and a day away, but I need to take serious action now. There’s something I’ve been meaning to do for years, and haven’t really gotten around to it... a dastardly demon which, if I can banish once and for all, promises to change my life and my family’s life for the better forever.

Since I already quit smoking years ago (my annual girls’ weekend notwithstanding), and my plan to drop those last 10 pounds is too mundane to mention, this year I have upped the Resolution ante to go beyond my body and mind and extend into my immediate environment.

I am going to declutter my house. And I’m not going to wait till January. I’m going to do it now. One room a week, maybe two. By New Year’s Day, I’ll be ready to take on 2009 with a more feng-shui-like, zen-eriffic, streamlined essence. I expect that once my house is in hand, my inner clutter will dissipate as well. At least, that’s the idea.

Because I seriously cannot take it anymore. I am completely overwhelmed by Stuff. Stupid, useless, crappy stuff. Baby clothes and puzzle pieces and mugs and blankets and picture frames and stickers and paper and plastic and so much dollar-store pollution wrought upon me by my well-meaning mother that I fear she may have singlehandedly been supporting the Chinese economy for years.

I will have no mercy. I will throw it all out, give it all away, donate it, decrease it, never think about it again. We will survive without all this odious Stuff because we have each other and that is what is important. I refuse to be attached to anything besides my kids and my husband.

In this matter, I resolve to have more resolve. By this time next month, every surface will be clear and every toy in its place. And I will be happy and carefree and unencumbered by the weight of the world...

Her Name is Rio...

Pregnant Pause — Sat, 29 Nov 2008 04:57:00 GMT

Okay, so Dan and I had our first real date sans enfants since the baby was born... and we almost didn’t come home at all. What with all the stress we’ve been under lately, we figured it was time to get our butts back out into the real world and leave the spit-up, diapers and tears behind for a few hours.

The big event? Abby’s school had a big 40^th-anniversary gala thingie last night. Though we thought it would end up being a bit stuffy, we had a really great time. Of course, we’re an easy crowd – we could have been watching paint dry at the water-filtration plant and we would’ve had a blast, so deprived have we been lately of grown-up conversation and diversions. Or, maybe it was because we got a wee bit tipsy (okay, drunk!).

The lone dark spot, aside from a series of boring speeches from 18 of the school’s past presidents, was the fact that I had to excuse myself halfway through the meal to pump in the ladies’ room, lest my slowly engorging bosom cause the top of my dress to explode. It was an extremely inelegant feeling, milking myself like a cow, all dolled up in my holiday finest, but I suppose it was the price I had to pay for freedom.

It only took 12 hours of preparation to make it all happen. I got a much-needed haircut, bathed the kids in the afternoon, started dinner at 4, got dressed at 5, and pumped like a demon so that Jonas would have enough milk, all in order to be ready to leave the house at 6. My mother – bless her soul – agreed to take on all three of our little darlings for what I figured would surely end up being the last time we’d ever get the chance.

In the end, the kids were angels. My mom now thinks I’m a big fat liar when I call her to complain about how rotten they’re being and how hard it is to have three. On the upside, although I will no longer be getting any sympathy from her, she has agreed to babysit again sometime soon.

Incidentally, I just found out that Duran Duran is coming to Montreal next week and I think I may need to see in person if the years have been kind to John Taylor...

TV or Not TV? That is the Question...

Pregnant Pause — Tue, 25 Nov 2008 04:26:00 GMT

Quite by accident the other day, I noticed that Jonas seems entranced by the beauty and excitement and wonder that is television.

Abby, Asher and I were just sitting around, watching one of the only six Backyardigans episodes in existence for the three billionth time, while Jonas crabbed and complained in his bouncy chair. The witching hour had begun – 4:30 PM – and, alas, it was too early for dinner, so I decided to drug my unhappy bunch into submission with a little computer animation.

The big kids immediately went into wide-eyed cerebral shutdown mode, as expected, but what I didn’t expect was for Jonas to be equally sedated. As soon as the baby heard the lilting strains of Uniqua singing "Float Flutter Fly," he quieted down immediately and fell asleep. We all did. I woke at 6 o’clock to three hungry shriekers. I felt guilty and elated all at the same time.

Is fresh-out-of-the-womb too young for TV, or rather should I be banning the idiot tube altogether for kids of all ages? It’s one of those serious parenting questions I can’t ever seem to find a satisfactory answer to, along with several others I’ve been perpetually pondering (like, Should you empty the entire bath and start over if a kid pees in it, just a little, and How bad is McDonald’s really?).

As for TV, I know that I’m just going to end up playing it by ear, like I always do. Try and limit it the best I can, I guess, though it’s so easy to overuse it as an in-house babysitter when things are getting crazy around here. I’m just worried I’m going to end up with three addicted drones who can’t hold either a normal conversation or a job in any field other than video game design...

Ay, there’s the rub.

Extreme Makeover: “Me” Edition

Pregnant Pause — Thu, 20 Nov 2008 00:02:00 GMT

The miracle of even a moderate makeover cannot be understated, dear mothers-in-arms.

I have felt like a virtual cavewoman since I gave birth. Not only do I, well, feel like I live in a cave because I rarely see the light of day due to the fact that, a) it’s cold outside, and, b) our pediatrician scared us into hibernation for the first 8 weeks of Jonas’ life due to the harsh realities of cold and flu season. (Did you know that babies under two months old with high fevers often need to get a spinal tap just to rule out meningitis? No thanks!)

These unfun facts have led me to seriously let myself go lately, and let me tell you, it doesn’t take long for nature to reclaim what we women work so hard to maintain. In order to still be able to enjoy the effects of my makeover, I put the issues surrounding weight and flabbiness and leaky boobiness aside and simply decided to work with whatever’s left.

The idea is that by prettying up the outside with a little yardwork, my inside will soon follow suit and sunshine and happiness will ensue. And so, slowly, over the past two weeks, I’ve stolen any little chance to sneak away from the Trio of Terror. In pursuit of my mommy makeover, I have:

1. Dyed my ridiculously grown-out gray roots in complete and utter disregard for the chemical concerns that prevented me from dying my hair during my pregnancy, even though I’m still breastfeeding

2. Treated myself to a marvellous manicure... specifically, a gel overlay, so that it’ll last 3 whole weeks and withstand all manner of antibiotic hand sanitizer and the disgusting subungal remnants of explosive diaper changes

3. Indulged in a couple of terrific nursing bras to hoist the girls back up to where they should be, despite the fact that underwire may lead to repeat bouts of painful mastitis

4. Visited a sadistic wench who waxed me into oblivion

5. Sucked up the fact that I still have a few pounds to go, and went out and bought some clothes in a larger size. Psychologically, it feels better than wearing my flimsy, faded summery maternity clothes

I’m still a work in progress – an exercise routine and a facial would do me some serious good – but overall I must say I do feel better.

As an unexpected bonus, I have confirmed once and for all that it does hurt to be beautiful... hurts my bikini line, hurts my scalp, hurts my milk ducts, hurts my pride, hurts my wallet. And beautiful is a stretch, really – it hurts just to feel human again. Hurts so good.

17 Kids... 3 Kids... What’s the Difference?

Pregnant Pause — Mon, 17 Nov 2008 20:06:00 GMT

Wow. I really am a bit of a negligent mummy after all. I brought Jonas to the doctor on Friday to examine his goopy parts and it turns out he has a blocked tearduct in his eye (hence the thrice-hourly wipings) and a granuloma on his belly button. I’m not quite sure what a granuloma is, but suffice it to say it needed a generous application of silver nitrate to help it dry up.

Silver nitrate, silver nitrate... rings a bell. Was that the stuff I huffed out of a balloon at that Grateful Dead concert in Vermont in the early ‘90s? Maybe not, but whatever it was, it turned his navel black. Eww.

Not only that but I just noticed the other day that Asher’s fingernail is about to fall off - the stomach-churning result of an "accidental" finger slamming committed by Abby a few weeks ago. Seriously, I could just puke I feel so bad. How could I not have noticed that?

After a serious pow-pow over the weekend, Dan and I are recommitting ourselves to parenting all of our kids in a happy and constructive and non-yelling way. Now that the newborn fog is beginning to clear, we no longer have any excuse. In the hopes of ratcheting up my mommy skills, I decided to seek out some expert help. As always, I turned to The Learning Channel in my time of need.

So I watched that show about the crazy Duggar family with 17 kids and was amazed by the sheer calmheadedness that mom Michelle manages to maintain in the face of stunning adversity. Surely, she contends with multiple goopy children on any given day, and still the kids all appear to be in decent health. Laundry gets done, lessons are taught, boo-boos are kissed and dinner’s on the table at 6. Ridiculous!

But I wasn’t looking for inspiration in terms of handling it all or juggling the demands of motherhood – sticking to my Anti-Multi-Tasking Manifesto has been working quite well! – but rather a way to keep a smile on my face in the midst of everything. You see, it’s not the size of the Duggar family that’s really so incredible to me, or even how they manage to get it all done, but rather the apparent happiness and joy with which they parent. I know it’s probably edited to death – maybe they leave out the parts where mom and dad dangle any rogue misbehavers over the balcony and threaten to drop them – but I somehow have the sense that they actually know what they’re doing.

I even went to the Duggar Family website to see if they had any tips to offer a mere mom of three like me who growls and grumbles at her kids when they’re really not being that bad, and who unreasonably expects her two-and-a-half-year old to understand what she’s going through. (Somehow, Asher is not sympathetic to how short-tempered I can get when I only sleep four hours a night.)

All I could determine aside from the intense scheduling and chore-sharing and task delegation which seem to make their home run smoothly, is that Michelle is dedicated to having a "meek spirit." At first I was horrified. Sounds pretty awful, right? But I think what she means is this: In order to be happy and calm, one must give oneself over completely to the chaos of having children. Accept it, embrace it, delight in it, don’t fight it... and you too can enjoy the blessings of parenthood without any of the stress and anger.

Let’s try it tonight and see if it works...

My Oozing Offspring

Pregnant Pause — Wed, 12 Nov 2008 18:54:00 GMT

Abby and Asher have runny noses, Jonas has a goopy protuberance where once was his umbilical stump and his left eye is stuck shut every morning. Even the goldfish has diarrhea. (Okay, we don’t have any fishies anymore, but I’m sure they would have the runs if we hadn`t accidentally killed them last spring.) And I’m just going to go ahead and ignore it all.

Why? Because that’s life with kids. Kids are gross – gross in every possible way. Their hands are sticky even as they come out of the bath, their teeth are mossy right after they’ve brushed them, and their faces are covered in chocolate and jam no matter what they ate for lunch.

Maybe I should be paying some more attention to Jonas and his little newborn-y issues, though. If it had been Abby who’d had a sticky eye or navel, we’d have blown every red light on the way to the emergency room at 3 AM and booked in for a specialist the next day, but I guess I’m just such an old hat by now that I know what’s worth worrying about and what isn’t. Right?

But what if I’m wrong? Maybe my coolheadedness is a result not of experience, but of negligence! Maybe I’m a horrific mother because I feed them noodles five nights out of seven. Can child services take your kids away if you secretly turn a blind eye to them eating their boogers because you know no matter what you say your threats are no match for the delicious treasures they find up their nostrils? If I send them to school with nits and pocks and strange rashes and the same socks as yesterday, does that make me a monster?

Hope not, but some moms may think so. The truth is, the real reason I can ignore so much oozing and wheezing and still sleep at night is because I know that no matter what, I do two things right: Adore them and boob them. I’m hoping that unconditional love will take care of whatever the benefits of breastfeeding don’t cover... said the cyclops’ mother.

Wondering what happens next...?

My Anti-Multi-Tasking Manifesto

Pregnant Pause — Mon, 10 Nov 2008 05:30:00 GMT

I’ve spent the first 6 weeks of my baby’s life thinking about work – housework, homework, my work. In order to get anything done, I’ve had to either push the limits of human sleeplessness or spend hours bouncing up and down like a jackie-in-the box, popping that pacifier back in Jonas’ mouth, cajoling him to be quiet so that I can Get Things Done. Frankly, it’s enough already.

It’s definitely something I don’t think I got right with Abby and Asher when they were babies, and as a result I fear I may have already missed out a little on the zen-like loveliness of my new one’s new life. I know it’s the little things that make the truly magical memories... sweet early smiles, middle-of-the-night alien eyes staring up at me from beneath a long-suffering boob, the smell of three-day-old spit-up hidden in the folds of his chubby neck.

What I’m trying to say is that I think something just snapped in me today. Maybe it was because I spent the whole weekend running around trying to do errands and fulfill family obligations, feeding the baby in between stops in the car while Dan blackberried and the other kids watched DVDs and ate Happy Meals. How horrid.

I don’t care what it takes. I’m going to confront my people-pleasing demons, ignore my guilt about not meeting deadlines, and cut back on work. Instead, I’m going to go for a walk. Visit my grandma. Maybe even spend a leisurely afternoon cleaning out a closet. But I refuse to spend any more time at the computer with a fidgety, uncomfortable baby at my breast.

Jonas is my last kid – feeling pretty sure about that! – and this time I don’t want to miss any of it... the good, the bad, and the snuggly. So I swear, from this point forth, I’m going to do whatever it takes to keep my eye on the prize and stay in the present.

However, because life gets complicated so easily, and in case from time to time I need to be reminded of this commitment I’m making to myself (and chances are I will), I have created this Anti-Multi-Tasking Manifesto to guide me through any rough patches.

And so from now on, I vow to...

* Try my hardest to do only one thing at a time

* Watch way more daytime TV

* Never walk/run/cook while nursing my baby

* Go to bed before midnight

* Accept that it’s okay to be late

* Interact with my children regularly on a one-to-one basis

* Breathe every so often

* Not lose any more sleep over tardy thank-you notes

* Spend at least three mornings a week in bed with my baby

* Keep my pulse rate low

* Stop cleaning up for the cleaning lady

The Circle of Life Sucks

Pregnant Pause — Fri, 07 Nov 2008 04:28:00 GMT

It’s been a tough week.

Not to bring down the house, but my dear old grandfather died on Sunday. He was the patriarch of our family – a sweet but strong man who never raised his voice, and always had a kind word and a smile for everyone. He was a veteran, a man of integrity, never gossiped, and knew his priorities: family and friendship above all else.

People keep reminding me that he was 94 years old... that he lived a good life in good health; that he was lucky, that I was lucky to have him for so long. While that may all be true, I also know that it would probably take another 94 years for him to accomplish everything he wanted to. In the last year of his life alone, my grandfather danced at my sister’s wedding, travelled across the country to his brother's 100^th birthday party, celebrated his 65^th wedding anniversary with my grandma, and held his great-grandson Jonas steady at his bris only five weeks ago.

Sometimes, when I look at my beautiful baby boy, I can’t help but think how so many years ago, my grandfather was a babe in his own mother’s arms, and I wonder at how she, like me, must have dreamed of her son’s future during those long, sleepless newborn nights.

Surely, he lived up to all her expectations, and I can only hope my own kids will grow to be as lovely and loving as he was.

Hallowe’en Barftacular!

Pregnant Pause — Sat, 01 Nov 2008 02:04:00 GMT

Have I mentioned lately that I feel like a deflated beach ball? Only much less colorful, thanks to lingering anemia and a serious lack of sunlight. In fact, I look a bit like a zombie. Feel like one, too. So much so, in fact, that I went as myself tonight for Hallowe’en and scared the crap out of the neighborhood kids.

Pale and portly, that’s me. And I have the feeling things are going to get worse before they get better. The combination of easy access to a giant bowl of chocolate, way less trick-or-treaters than usual, the ravenous side-effects of breastfeeding and a previously existing smidgen of binge-eating disorder find me elbow-deep in the joys of high-fructose corn syrup tonight, with two kids bouncing off the walls and one neglected newborn happily cooing in a puddle of his own spit-up.

Ugh. Loving chocolate makes me hate myself... or at least the muffin-top torso and orange-peel derriere that make up the smorgasbord of delights that is my body these days. Add the enormity of my lactating bosom and I swear my 83-year-old Bubbie could be my body double these days.

I don’t really have that much weight to lose, I guess (10 pounds to my pre-preggers weight, or 15 to my happy number), but I still find myself in a completely alien body. This is my third time having a baby, and yet I somehow have trouble remembering that it takes patience – and willful blindness – to get back to that pre-pregnancy form.

Why do I even care? It’s not like I had a rockin’, slamming bod before I had kids, so I may as well eat that left over 75-pack of mini Snickers bars.

I think the trick to treating myself (and enjoying it!) may just be to lower my standards once and for all!

P.S. Sorry, Bubbie. You know I love you.

The C Word

Pregnant Pause — Wed, 29 Oct 2008 19:54:00 GMT

Until two nights ago, we had things pretty much under control. Sure we were sleep-deprived – mostly because Dan and I like to do stupid things like watch old Law and Order repeats at midnight while the baby’s sleeping soundly – but overall, baby Jonas was getting into a groove and so were we.

Generally, our boy has been a pretty good baby. He doesn’t like being put down, cries a bit here and there, and farts like an old man, but overall it was nothing a boob in the mouth couldn’t fix. And then he started CRYING FOR NO REASON.

It lasted almost 24 hours. Unless he was sleeping (and fitfully, at that), then he was crabby, fussy or actually in tears. In keeping with his usual optimism, Dan, of course, immediately deduced that Jonas has colic. "Ridiculous," I told him. "Colic is not permitted in our house. Don’t even think it."

Fortunately, a bit of Googling revealed that colic is way worse than we’ve been going through... as in hours and hours of inconsolable crying every day, which Jonas is nowhere near, even at his worst. So I’m going to chalk up his bad babyness to a growth spurt.

Though I hate it when people see a fussy baby and immediately deduce how starving he is, I decided to feed him three and half seconds. And so Jonas has been literally attached to me for far more hours than I care to admit. But it worked, and now he’s much happier.

In other news...

I just looked outside and it’s snowing. Actually snowing.

If that doesn’t put a damper on Hallowe’en, I don’t know what will. My poor kids -- there's nothing like the odious Canadian childhood tradition of wearing a winter coat over a costume that's been in development for six months. As for me, I think I'll dress up like an ice cream cone this year. Why?

Because I am the Dairy Queen.

Righteous Retrolicious Rotating Ridiculousness!

Pregnant Pause — Sat, 25 Oct 2008 22:03:00 GMT

Having babies is a nice excuse to go shopping.

Since the last few months of my pregnancy with Jonas found me crabby, achy and unable to lug my ginormous girth anywhere but from the fridge to the couch and back again, I had no choice but to turn to online purveyors in order to satisfy my need for greed.

During those long weeks, eBay and I forged a bond that I fear cannot ever be broken. In my boredom and frustration, I indulged in all manner of spending idiocy, with purchases ranging from the absolutely necessary to the somewhat questionable to the downright impossible to justify. By the time I delivered the baby, I was left wondering whether or not I might singlehandedly be responsible for the global credit crisis, judging from the smoke rising off my Visa card.

Of everything I didn’t need, this 1973 Vintage Fisher-Price farm mobile is by far my favorite:

I saw the auction and had some sort of weird acid flashback wherein I remembered being a baby and staring up at this thing from my crib. And so, I knew Jonas simply had to have it.

Of course, it arrived with no motorized component – you have to spin it by hand – because (silly me!) I wrongly assumed that actual motion would be included with the mobile. Fortunately, I found out that there is a piece that can be purchased separately which will get it to spin and play music.

Despite the fact that it’s obviously going to end up being the money pit of mobiles, I love this thing almost as much as I love my kid.

Is that wrong?

24 Days Old and Already Spoiled Rotten?

Pregnant Pause — Fri, 24 Oct 2008 22:34:00 GMT

As I sit here typing with one hand, Jonas cozily snuggled into the crook of my other arm, I’m reminded once again of something Mrs. Kim – the owner of our friendly neighbourhood convenience store – once said:

"No good! Spoil him!"

A few years ago, when I would go into her store for my daily chocolate fix, she would take one look at Asher, sleeping soundly in the Baby Bjorn, and furrow her brow. "Spoiled. Very bad. Very bad!"

She was right, of course. Our temporary fix for Asher’s reluctance to nap in his crib – carrying him around till he fell asleep – was not the best strategy in the end. The kid still crabs and fusses at bedtime (read: screams and vomits pea soup), and it’s our own damn fault.

And so it has begun again with Jonas. Not only is he not liking being put down, but I’m giving in to him every step of the way. It’s just so easy to let him sleep on my boob or in my arms... how can a sleep-deprived mom resist?

If anyone out there has any ideas as to how I’m supposed to get him to sleep for extended periods elsewhere, please fill me in. He’s about six months too young to be Ferberized, and yet I really don’t want to have another rotten sleeper on my hands.

Ugh, gotta go... the master wants a boobie.

Get the Lead Out, Lady

Pregnant Pause — Tue, 21 Oct 2008 18:35:00 GMT

Woe is me. I am tired.

There’s really no exhaustion like new-baby exhaustion. It’s bone-crushingly intense. My limbs feel like they’ve been encased in concrete; I move through my day like I’m under water. Even my colon is in slow-motion. Worst of all, though, is the fact that my brain is clearly not functioning effectively. It makes everyday chores difficult, compromises my communication skills since I can’t remember about 10 percent of my normal vocabulary, and makes working nearly impossible.

I wish that I’d take a longer maternity leave. Scratch that – I wish that I’d taken any maternity leave at all. I have a ton of deadlines and absolutely no desire or, quite frankly, no ability to meet them, and yet meet them I must. It’s stressing me out. What was I thinking, agreeing to take on such madness with a newborn at home?

Should I even be complaining? I know, my dear American readers, that you all get about 20 minutes of mat leave, while we crazy Canucks enjoy a full year of paid benefits (and then some). And I do realize it’s also partly the nature of my job, which usually affords me an unparalleled level of flexibility. For me, writing means I get to go to work in my pajamas, and I no longer have to deal with idiotic co-workers and their stinky microwave lunch leftovers. Best of all, I get to ride the fence between being a stay-at-home mom and a working mom, leaving me free of the usual judgment and recrimination most moms have to deal with from one side or the other.

But the guilt is still there – no matter what I’m doing at any given moment, it’s taking time away from either my career or my kids. But that’s a whole other story, I suppose. For now, I just need to figure out a way to do what I have to do and still try and somehow survive. Ideally, I’d also like to be able to enjoy these early days with Jonas without being too distracted by work. I’m pretty sure this baby’s going to be my last, so I want to savor it, at least a little bit.

After Abby was born, I took over a year off. It left me not only poor, but teetering on the brink of post-partum lunacy. With Asher, I had a book deadline and so I only took about four months. It was perfect – I realized that being even remotely productive made me feel and function better overall. With Jonas, I may have taken that concept a bit too far, because I really haven’t stopped working at all. I cut back a bit on a few of my regular commitments, but I still feel overwhelmed by what’s left, and things are only going to get busier in November.

The song remains the same, I suppose.

Truth is, I guess I always feel overwhelmed by trying to be the perfect model of mommy multi-tasking-ness, whether there’s a brand new baby shrieking in the background or a long-suffering older one secretly wishing that dinner might be waiting on the table for him at the end of a long day, even just once in a while. Yes, our sweet little Jonas is simply one more ingredient in the already crazy mixing bowl that is my life. Hopefully, the more complex flavors he’s brought along with him will mellow eventually, making everything more delicious. But until then <<yawn>> we’re gonna do takeout.

breast is Best... for Masochistic Mommy Martyrs like Me

Pregnant Pause — Thu, 16 Oct 2008 18:31:00 GMT

Jonas loves a good boobie. However, it sure ain’t easy. How could I have forgotten so quickly the horrors of the early days breastfeeding?

It’s coming back to me pretty quickly, now – the sleepless nights, the obsession with the proper latch, the cracked nipples, the pain, the blood, the sweat, the tears, the tenderness, the tiredness, the exhaustion... and did I mention how little sleep I’ve been getting? It sure would be nice to let someone else take an overnight shift.

I know that breast is best for both mother and baby (thanks those militant mammary lactivists who've made me so terrified of formula!) But if it’s so great, why is it so damn difficult? Mother Nature might have made a slight miscalculation in this regard – no wonder so few people stick it out past the initial days, because it is really hard.

This is my third kid, so I’ve been around the block a few times. One would think that breastfeeding would be a walk in the park for an old pro of advanced maternal age like me. But it isn’t. Every baby is different, I guess, and each must learn the ropes and torture his or her mother’s breasts in an entirely new way.

With Abby, I had recurrent mastitis and horrific, blinding pain for the first three months. To give my boobs a break, I started pumping, but soon developed an unhealthy relationship with my gear, kicking my already overproductive cans into hyperdrive. Within a few months I was producing enough milk to feed octuplets; my let-down was so powerful I could hit a target at 20 feet.

With Asher, things were marginally better, thanks to a decent lactation consultant who advised me to stay away from the pump for the first 8 weeks, lest the girls go overboard again. It was good advice – my bouts with mastitis were downgraded to plugged ducts – except for the fact that I introduced the bottle too late so Asher refused to take one. 18 months of "bonding" ensued. But I didn’t have kids so I could have fun, get out of the house occasionally or even or earn a living, right?

With Jonas, I can already tell I’m walking down the same path. Baby carriers, seat belts, sleeping on my stomach... all seem to cause plugged ducts almost instantly. But at least I know what to expect and how to handle it this time, and to avoid the things that make it worse. If only this kid could latch on properly – or I wasn’t too lazy to settle – maybe the pain will soon be gone, too.

Why do I bother? Who knows! Maybe if I write out all the pros and cons, it’ll make a little more sense to me...

Pros

* Health benefits for Baby (i.e. superhuman intelligence, infallible immune system, lower risk of childhood gigantism)

* Health benefits for Mommy (i.e. lower rates of breast and ovarian cancer, and possibly osteoporosis too)

* Aunt Flo forgets your address for a few more months

* Righteous indignation towards anyone who looks at you funny whilst popping it out in public

* Money saved on formula is enough to buy at least one designer handbag a year

* Burning all those extra calories makes Mommy’s extra weight just melt away (yeah right)

* Less crap to lug around in the diaper bag

Cons

* Pain, agony, suffering, etc.

* Leaky giant boobs

* Continued responsibility to not ingest too much alcohol or too many pharmaceuticals

* Enduring the constant irritation of elderly family members who are prevented from feeding Baby

* Pumping = Feeling like Bessy the Cow

* Accrued formula savings may be offset by need for future breast lift

* Continued hormonal personality disorder

* Ugly bras

Oh, who am I kidding? I'm in it for the long haul.

Breastfeeding is, quite simply, equal parts bonding and bondage! But because I know it really is best for my beauteous baby boy, it would be even harder not to continue...

Labor and Deliver Me From The Horror

Pregnant Pause — Thu, 09 Oct 2008 17:43:00 GMT

Jonas is only 10 days old and it already feels like an eternity since we had him. Don’t get me wrong – we’re enjoying him quite a bit, but babies sure can rock your world.

Since I haven’t even bought a baby book yet to record his every precious moment and milestone – third kids really are neglected, after all! – I’m going to jot down my L&D story here, just so I never forget.

Fair warning: If you don’t want to hear about my cervix, or have some sort of problem with the complete and total medicalization of the birthing process, please come back and visit another day. For those who’d like to stay, I will, however, spare you some of the gory details and give it to you kindly in point form...

Sunday, September 28:

* We get the call from the hospital to come in for an induction at 7 PM. Since Asher was a big baby and I had a, um, challenging delivery (shoulder distocia and a yukky episiotomy) last time, Dr. M., my beloved OB/GYN, thought my vag and I might appreciate the blessings of a smaller babe this time around.

* Though we were told the cervical gel would gently rock me into labor by the following morning, at which point I would awake refreshed from a great night’s sleep ready to take on Delivery Day, the contractions start about 30 minutes later.

* A long night of tears, fears and finally, Demerol, reminds me why I swore I would never do this again. Equally upsetting are the mirrored ceiling in the delivery suite (WTF?) and the fact that Dan feels the need to enjoy a giant bag of stinky ketchup chips all night long. (He’s a nervous eater.)

Monday, September 29:

* By 11 AM, it’s epidural time! Funny how the sight of a foot-long needle and dire warnings about the possibly paralytic repercussions of a single flinch during its insertion can be so warmly welcomed in the proper context.

* Now the fun stuff really starts: the doc breaks my water with some sort of crochet hook, someone botches an I.V. insertion, I lose my fight against the catheter nurse and the pitocin drip kicks the contractions into high gear. I go from 5 to 10 centimetres in an hour.

* Dan puts on a sweatshirt bearing his firm’s logo, just in case anyone thinks he isn’t prepared to sue if things go awry.

* And then we wait until I feel the need to push. And wait. And wait. Two hours later, deserted by all nurses and doctors due to a series of emergency c-sections down the hall, we’re still waiting.

* Unable to bear my complaints any longer, Dan goes trolling for nurses in the hallway. He comes back with one who begrudgingly checks me while rolling her eyes, then screams "GET THE DOCTOR!!!"

* Stirrups fly into place, birthing accoutrements are ceremoniously laid out and Dr. M. comes flying into the room just in time. After he makes fun of me for bothering to get a pedicure before the Big Event (I figure, if my toes were the last thing I ever saw, I’d want them to be nicely groomed) and two pushes later, at 3:26 PM, I hear the doc say: "Reach down and grab your baby..."

* As I pull Baby Jonas up onto my stomach and look into his scrunchy little face, I’m amazed once again that there actually was a real person in there, waxy, wondrous little thing that he is.

* Dan cuts the cord and we share a moment while the doc puts Humpty Dumpty back together again.

Tuesday, September 30:

* I hate hospitals and so Dr. M was kind enough to release me into Dan’s custody a mere 24 hours and one minute after the delivery. The freak amount of babies born the previous day meant no private rooms had been available – and thus, we were kept up all night by someone else’s baby! – so home was sounding pretty good.

* Our no-longer-so-little family is reunited at last when my mom brings Abby and Asher home, and we settle in to the hazy, lazy, crazy days of life with a newborn in the house.

Fun Update, Tuesday, October 7:

* Just as I think to myself, "Gee, I can’t believe how quickly I feel like I’m getting back to normal," I begin feeling crappy and feverish.

* The hemorrhaging begins shortly thereafter. Drawing on the rich experience of a friend who almost bled out three weeks postpartum (on her white couch, no less), I decide to take it seriously.

* Dr. M. spares me a trip to the E.R. and sees me right away in his office. I have endometritis, it turns out – an angry, freaky uterus with an ax to grind. Since I’m not naturally gross, I’m going to blame the army of residents, interns, nurses and possibly even orderlies who had their hands up in my business during my 18 hours of labor. Maybe one of them forgot to wash up.

Gotta go now... Baby Jonas needs a boob!