My body, my choice

In the comment box:

Michelle, I’m sorry for your struggle with breastfeeding. I do, however, think that maybe you are putting too much emphasis on your own desire to nurse your baby, and not on the grace of having available a healthy alternative. It’s not about you at this point and I think far too often we as mothers get hung up on doing what we want, at the expense of everything else. If your daughter is doing fine on formula, be grateful that there is formula out there that’s good and beneficial. It’s not so much how you feed your baby, but that you feed your baby, and that your baby thrives.

First of all, I am truly grateful that my baby is healthy and thriving on bottled supplement – both formula and expressed milk. I have often considered that if I were living on a rural farm a hundred years ago, my child would likely be dead or very sickly.

But gratitude for modern technology that gives me a breast pump, safe drinking water and high-tech baby formula does not change the fact that my body is not functioning as it should. It is normal to grieve over this handicap.

If I were in a terrible accident and lost half my leg, I would be grateful that I didn’t lose my life, I would thank God for technology that would give me a good prosthetic, but it would be odd if I didn’t miss my leg and wish to be whole. If this were my first child, if I had not successfully breastfed five children (four of them with little difficulty), perhaps it would not be as difficult. But knowing what my body was capable of doing, and not being able to do it now, is very frustrating.

Secondly, yes, I do have an intense desire to nurse my child. In the last 9 1/2 years, I have been breastfeeding a child all but 15 months broken up in brief pauses between weaning one and birthing another. It’s a part of my life, it’s a habit, it’s what I’m used to doing, it’s how I know how to take care of a baby. I can and will adapt as the situation demands, but I am reluctant to shrug a tried and true method at the first sign of trouble. I persevered through this exact situation with my fourth child, and by the time she was three months old the tears were long dried and the supplements long forgotten.

Ultimately, what needs to be discerned is God’s will. Although I don’t feel that bottle feeding or breastfeeding is a moral issue, I do think that since God gave me breasts designed to provide nourishment for my child, that it is natural for that to be my goal. Other mothers may happily choose to bottle feed, and I have no problem with that. I was a bottle fed baby, and I turned out just fine – healthy, intelligent and well-bonded with my mom. But I feel that breastfeeding is what God intended, and it’s what I’d like to do.

Four years ago, when I struggled to feed Jenny, I wondered and prayed about whether or not it was God’s will for me to bottle feed her instead. I honestly don’t think He cared one way or the other. But I don’t think, if He had to choose for me, that He would really pick a bottle over His own perfect design.

Sometimes when we suffer it is because we are choosing our desires over God’s desires. But sometimes when we suffer it is merely because life is difficult. I don’t believe that God is causing this suffering, nor do I believe that this suffering is because I’m being overly selfish. Many may say that the suffering is pointless, and that I should save myself all the grief. Others, especially those who know me well, may understand the grief that would attend my quitting.

Is it wrong for me to spend so much time nursing, pumping, going to the lactation consultant’s office, and devising spreadsheets to track the baby’s weight gain? Perhaps my family is not eating gourmet meals, the laundry is being done only on an as-needed basis, and schoolwork is a bit lighter than normal. This is life with any new baby. The only person, besides me, who is having a hard time, is my husband, who is foregoing schoolwork to do childcare. But he has chosen to support me in this, and I thank the Lord that his schedule, for once, permits him the leeway to be home more often to help me.

And the baby? She’s fine. Here she is all snuggled on my lap as I type this blog post. I would never jeopardize her health for my own selfish desires. Breastfeeding is not more important than a healthy baby. But I don’t think my breastfeeding and her health are mutually exclusive goals.

What I’ve really been up to

I realize that my blogging since the baby’s birth has been…minimal. Even when I do post, it is a bit lacking in substance. Now that the relatives are gone, I’m back to my usual life: feed baby at breast, feed baby with a bottle, pump, change baby’s diaper, repeat. Sometimes for variety I read out of a history book or do a math lesson.

If I’m not doing that, I’m off to the clinic or the LC’s (lactation consultant) office. Mary is now 5 weeks old, and not yet back to her birth weight. I’m bottle-feeding her way more than I want to, but I realize it is important that she put on weight. Apparently, besides being too stressed out to produce enough milk, I am also too old and too tired and worn out. Naturally, I reject all those theories, but it sure makes life hard when, once again, an appointment with the LC fails to demonstrate that the baby is getting enough at the breast.

Whenever I read about the heroic deaths of the saints, whether a martyrdom or a slow, painful suffering from something like tuberculosis, I wonder if I could bear that cross with dignity and without complaint. I think the answer is no. Too often I hear myself saying, “I quit! It’s too hard.” The fact is, I have little patience for this whole process. I want a quick fix: more milk, better sucking, no effort – POOF!

I will admit to a certain level of enjoyment at the convenience of handing my husband the baby and a bottle and running out to the grocery store alone. But then I feel I have to sneak down the baby aisle and hide the container of formula under the other groceries. It’s ridiculous, I know. But the whole breastfeeding/bottle feeding thing is very emotional for me.

I’ll get through this. Deep down, I’m not ready to quit yet. But I pray for fortitude and patience. This isn’t a noble or glorious suffering, like having the stigmata. But the pumping, the watching the clock, the recording of every wet diaper, and the trips to weigh the baby definitely qualify as a cross. I just need to offer it up.

The cake

It’s not the prettiest, but he did it himself (with some assistance). I especially like the red candies where the hands/feet/head were.

No, I did not ask him what he meant when he said he wanted it to look like God. Then he might have gotten his hopes up that I would be willing to alter the design.

No, I was not going to argue that if it looked like a Host it would look like God. He was getting a cross. Period. Such is the downside to having a sacrament or a birthday or some other special event when Mom’s priority is a new baby.

I’m no Michelangelo

Billy was disappointed to learn that I, his uncreative and temporarily overwhelmed mother, was planning to use the same cross-shaped cake mold I used for Mary’s Baptismal cake for his First Holy Communion cake tomorrow.

“But I wanted it to look like God,” he wailed.

Um…………..?

Perhaps blondes have more fun, but they get no respect

I was born blonde, but my hair is now a light-to-medium brown with natural highlights if I spend a lot of time in the sun.

My husband, though, apparently thinks that I’m still very blonde. Now, honestly, I’m a smart cookie, and my husband is a top admirer of my mental acuity. I will admit to having “blonde moments” wherein I suddenly forget how to read a map, or where I put the car keys, or the difference between a manatee and a cockatoo, but I think these times are fairly rare. There is no reason for anyone to expect me to not follow along in a conversation and understand what is being said.

So, in September, when Bill felt the need to define the acronym IPA, I was a little insulted. But then yesterday he was telling me a story about a sniper and blah blah blah blah. I’m really not going to repeat this story. I was listening, but this is not the type of story that civilians (including ME) really want to hear about, but since I’m married to an Army guy, I get to hear all the time. Suffice it to say that it includes DEATH in a violent manner. C’est la guerre.

OK. So, guns are involved, and my husband mentions that the sight wasn’t zeroed. He then explains that this means that what the shooter would see in the sight is not where the bullet would actually go.

Really? Wow. Learn something new every day.

At least some anonymous internet quiz thinks I’m a genius.

I think I’ll go back to coloring my hair. I may as well look the part. I’m just surprised he lets me educate his kids!

P.S. No offense meant to any smart blondies out there.