August Is Breast Feeding Awareness Month ~ Guest Post by Jennifer

My name is Jennifer and I met Jen and Dana when we were all teachers. Now I am a homemaker for my amazing husband, two beautiful sons, and one slightly neurotic cocker spaniel.

In July, Jen and Dana invited me to guest post with the instructions to write about something that “fired me up”. I never anticipated breastfeeding to be the topic that pushed me into writing.

August is Breastfeeding Awareness Month and I realized that I needed to tell my story about my experiences. When I was pregnant with Jacob I assumed I would breastfeed. I mean, it’s free and healthy! How hard could it be? Oh the naiveté! I know some women who are so incredibly fortunate to have had easy experiences. I am not one of them.

My initiation as a breastfeeding mother was a rocky one. When Jacob was a newborn he refused to nurse. He would shut his mouth and go to sleep every single time I tried to nurse. So there I was with a hungry baby and my “talent”, which as a friend once put it, is producing a lot of breast milk. I will forever be thankful to a dear friend, who is a Lactation Consultant, for giving me peace of mind over using a bottle. Once we made this feeding decision, I heard a lot about how now he would never take to nursing and that I needed to keep trying. The comments were masked in concern and support but I felt like less of a woman/mother for feeding my baby with a bottle. I fought the guilt since it was still my milk; plus, this way my husband was able to feed and bond with Jacob too. Prior to this I didn’t even know that exclusive pumping was a thing but I did it. I remember crying as I learned to use the pump and asking God why Jacob wouldn’t latch. Thankfully, Jacob decided to nurse at three weeks old but it was still touch and go for some time after that. We got through some days “nursing session by nursing session” but we didn’t give up and I ended up nursing Jacob until he was 14 months old. (Take that, naysayers!) I know now that I had to learn to pump so that I could provide milk for Jacob while I was at school earning my MA. Plus, six months later a friend of mine had a very similar situation happen and I was able to minister to her in her time of need!

Jennifer and her first son, Jacob. Look at his chunky thighs! — Jacob and I. Look at his chunky thighs!

When I was pregnant with my second son, Andrew, I thought I was ready. I knew what nursing was like. I knew it might be difficult and that it would probably hurt. If all else failed, I knew my way around a pump. As it turns out, I was not prepared for the entirely new kind of hard that establishing, and maintaining, a breastfeeding relationship with Andrew would prove to be.

Last week, Andrew turned 1. But he was born one month early at 36 weeks gestation. His birth was very quick and he was small so he ended up with fluid in his lungs (Transient Tachypnea of the Newborn) and became a NICU baby for a week. Unfortunately, he could not eat those first three days because of his rapid breathing. As I did with Jacob, I pumped every three hours so I wouldn’t lose my supply. Within a week I had a stash of over 100 ounces. The NICU nurses were impressed. He went from tube feeding, to a bottle, before learning how to nurse. Remember my “talent”? My less than six-pound baby had to learn to nurse from breasts that were bigger than his head. Once again, it was not easy and it hurt. He was five days old before we had a successful nursing session. I still cry when I think about how relieved I was that day.

Jennifer nursing preemie Andrew. — Nursing preemie Andrew.

Nursing Andrew was easier than Jacob only because he was eager. The hard parts were the technical ones like correct latch and drinking enough. Because of my “talent” I also had to worry about foremilk/hind milk imbalance which is a product of the vicious cycle of having so much milk that he would be full and I would have to pump out the excess; I was desperate to avoid mastitis. I had to actively work to decrease my supply just enough so that he wasn’t choking at every feeding but not so much that my supply went away. I went back to see a Lactation Consultant for some peace of mind and the reassurance that we were doing things right. Unfortunately, when Andrew was about two months old he rejected the bottle and would only nurse…I felt like I was on a leash tied to my baby. There were other factors at play but Andrew’s refusal of the bottle, and my subsequent inability to get a break, were big factors in the severity of my Post Partum Depression (PPD). There were a few months there where I just wanted to get out of the house and part of me resented nursing Andrew. Statistics will tell you that breastfeeding reduces the likelihood of mothers developing PPD but it was making things worse for me. Despite all this, I believe my PPD would have gotten worse, due to guilt, if I had stopped nursing Andrew at four months of age. This was when my PPD was at its strongest point, as four months is when PPD tends to peak.

Since my baby refused to take a bottle, my freezer filled up with pumped milk. I knew I needed to donate it but I could not bring myself to give it away. It took me months to give away the first batch of milk and I totally cried over it. I was literally giving away part of myself and it was super hard to do. (You know the phrase “There’s no use crying over spilled milk”? Whoever came up with that nugget never had to pump their own milk.) I ended up donating over 300 ounces to our cousin’s baby with Down Syndrome who couldn’t latch. Each time I gave away my milk I cried but it also got a tiny bit easier. I knew it was needed elsewhere, my baby wasn’t got to drink it, and I sure wasn’t going to let my milk go to waste in my freezer!

My baby is 1 and I am doing better. I am at the point where I am cherishing every nursing session with Andrew because I know they are numbered. It’s interesting though how things change. When I was almost done nursing Jacob I was ready. I was looking forward to having my body back to myself. Maybe it’s because things started so poorly for us. I don’t know. I just know that I feel differently about weaning Andrew. Jen has a theory that we attach more strongly to our PPD/Anxiety babies. That could be it. One thing I do know is that I am proud to be a breastfeeding mom. It has been so much harder than I could have ever imagined but I am so glad I didn’t give up. It is such an amazing experience to watch my babies develop rolls upon rolls of baby chub because of ME. Rolls that I get to tickle and kiss to my heart’s content.

During this month of Breastfeeding Awareness I celebrate my personal journey in being a breastfeeding mother and I support all mothers in feeding their babies. Exclusive breastfeeding, exclusive pumping, donor milk feeding, formula feeding, supplemental feeding, and any other method of feeding, we are all doing the best we can for our babies and for ourselves. We should all be proud of that and we should be supporting each other. I know I would be telling a different story if it weren’t for the support of my amazing husband and the mamas in my village.

Resources:

For Breastfeeding in the US

Loving Support (Riverside County, CA): www.lovingsupport.org

La Leche League: www.llli.org

For Breastfeeding in Canada

INFACT Canada: www.infactcanada.ca

La Leche League Canada: www.lllc.ca

For Pre and Postpartum Mental Health support worldwide:

Postpartum Support International: www.postpartum.net

Buying and Selling

When Shea and I bought our current house, it was at the height of the real estate market in So Cal. We did what so many other folks did—we toured the Inland Empire on Saturdays, looking at models of homes still to be built. We entered our names into lotteries and huddled with hundreds of other people at 7 am, waiting to hear our number called. When it was, we had ten minutes to pick a lot with a model on it.

The price was predetermined, as was the layout. No negotiating. We didn’t need a realtor. Once we got the house, the rest was easy.

I’m telling you all this so you understand that I. Didn’t. Know.

I have not just one, but TWO realtors in my life. A local realtor who is going to do her best to make our short-but-almost-standard-sale in So Cal a success. And a realtor in Oregon who is stalking houses for us to buy. This poor woman. The home market in our price range is hopping, and here we are, 700 miles away and trying to play. Already, three homes have sold out from under us in less than a day.

What can you do when you’re this far away?

I didn’t know sellers would be so infuriatingly patient that even when it is clear to the whole wide world that their house ain’t gonna sell for that amount, they will not entertain a lower offer.

I didn’t know that we would find the perfect five bedroom home and enter into escrow. Only to have my neighbor, her hand clearly guided by the Blessed Mother, discover on page 3 of Google that the home had previously belonged to a sexual psychopath, with family still living in the area and a clear history of breaking his parole.

We walked, not just for the bad mojo, but for the fear that one day that guy would knock on the door for kicks and giggles, and there would be one of my daughters.

Oh. Hell. No.

(Buyer beware: The listing agent knew. It is not legally required for anyone to disclose that a sex offender used to live in a home. The Megan’s Law websites can only tell where offenders currently live.)

And then this house popped up:

I know. I wanted this house, so badly that I flew to Oregon on a whim to see it. And it was everything it promised to be except for one small problem: sloped ceilings. I guess folks were shorter in the 1940s.

Still, I found a lovely architect who could fix it for us if we were willing to live with it for a few years first. He was on vacation, then we were and when we came back, the house had sold.

That was when we started praying every night for “God to send us our house”.

Just pick a house, you say? It’s not that easy. One morning, over coffee and the morning Zillow report, I found a lovely contender. Great neighborhood, good lot size, enough bedrooms. Then I scrolled through the pictures and saw this:

Do you see that thing on the stairs? It’s not a shadow. It’s an absence of light, like the light has been sucked in or forced away. Now look carefully at the TV in this picture:

You see that???

I sent these pictures to Dana and Lesley, who called me a chicken for not wanting to live with a spirit. She’s right. I‘ve done ghost in the house and don’t need to do it again.

I’m sure the owners are wondering why their beautiful home—now priced below market value—is not selling.

I kind of want to tell them.

Today, we fly to Oregon to make a decision. We have a Top 12 list of homes we like. We are going to spend a fast 96 hours dragging the kids from house to house until we find it.

Please pray for us. Because the fatigue is setting in, and the worry about how I will fill my days after we find the right place, and if there is such a thing as Realtor.com Anonymous, because I may need it.

House-hunting: it’s not for the faint of heart.

No Turtles

This right here? This is good stuff: “Are we raising a generation of helpless kids?”

“We made our kid’s happiness a central goal – and now it’s difficult for them to generate happiness — the by-product of living a meaningful life.”

Timely, since here I am at home for the summer with my 8 year old, 6 year old and 2 year old who still needs a nap. They do not play well with each for more than 20 minutes. And sometimes by play well, I’m only talking about agreeing on the same TV show.

They’re bored, they’re hungry, they’re mean to each other and the next thing we know, mama is a screaming harpy and everyone’s been grounded til they’re twelve.

I guess I could take control of every minute of their day and schedule them into exhausted silence. It’s tempting. I know lots of moms who do.

But then I remember my “No Turtles” rule.

We started it when Gabe was about three and he’d pseudo try to do something, such as put his shirt on himself, and then he’d flop like Arjen Robben and wail “I can’t do it!!!”

I used to tell him “Don’t act like a turtle on your back, arms and legs kicking in the air! Figure it out.” This evolved into our “No Turtle” rule.

So if I hijack summer, my days might be more peaceful, but the long term result will be a household full of turtles. “Mom, I’m bored! Mom, we never do anything! Mom, I wish we could go to Disneyland! We never have any fun!”

No thank you.

Dearest children of mine,

This summer, the management will no longer be providing Perfect Days. There will be many, many opportunities for fun and games, but very few of them will be directed by Mom.

We went to the library, so there are books to read.

We went to the teacher supply store, so there are workbooks and science experiments.

We’ll keep up our tradition of the weekly trip to the mall, because Mama loves her some mall. We’ll hit the waterpark once or twice. I’ll set up play dates upon request. Maybe a trip or two to the beach. VBS, for sure.

And there are 12 kids in a five house radius. Everyone can learn a new game, like “tag” or “hide and go seek”. After a long day playing outside, I could probably be talked into making ice cream for the lot of you.

I know this is different, but we have no choice. If we continue to take responsibility for your happiness, where does it stop? I met a lady last week who is planning her son’s honeymoon—not just paying for it, planning it down to the daily excursions and nightly dinners.

Can you imagine getting a text from your mom on your honeymoon: “Have you guys gotten dressed for dinner yet? If you’re running behind, let me know and I’ll call the restaurant”.

Someday you’ll thank me.

In the meantime, remember the new house rule: If anyone says “I’m bored” or “There’s nothing to do”, I automatically get to pick a new activity. My current favorites are “Put the laundry away”, “Pack a box” and “Vacuum”.

Happy Summer!

Love, Mom

Celebrating Midsummer ~ Dana

Here in the United States, most of us only know about Midsummer from the Shakespearean play, Midsummer Night’s Dream, but Midsummer isn’t a holiday that is celebrated by the general population. Midsummer is another name for the Summer Solstice, which is the longest day and shortest night, of the calendar year, which takes place on June 21st. Flowers and fruits are in full bloom, the earth is warm, and there is a lot of fun just waiting to be had.

In our modern lives, when we can have as much light as we want for as long as we want it, thanks to electricity, we have lost a bit of the “magic” that this night held for our ancestors. Imagine how glorious the longest day of the year would be if all winter, we had darkness, real darkness, around 4:00pm. No street lights, no reading lights, limited candle light… we certainly would celebrate the return of the sun into our lives, wouldn’t we!

Traditionally, all throughout Europe, Midsummer was celebrated by lighting bonfires, which represented the burning sun. Festivals included singing, dancing around a maypole, flower wreaths in girls’ hair, and bountiful feasts of the summer harvest. It was also a time for love and romance, as the month of June is named after Juno, the Roman goddess of love. In England, as evidenced in Midsummer Night’s Dream, fairies might be sighted in the magical moonlight, wreaking havoc in the love lives of mere mortals. And in Sweden, where Midsummer is still a national holiday, young women are supposed to place seven different wildflowers under their pillows. At night, their future husbands will appear to them in a dream.

So how can we celebrate this lovely time today? The best way to honor the longest day of sunshine is to get out and enjoy it!! How about a nice long day at the beach, followed up by a (legal) bonfire as the sun dips below the water? Or a pool party with a fire pit? Or picnicking in a park, picking wildflowers? Working in your garden? Attending a June wedding? Midsummer is our first day of summer, so spend the day doing whatever summer means to you! We will be enjoying the Lavender Festival at the Highland Springs Resort, a local organic farm. Then we’ll head over to my mom’s house for swimming and a bar-be-que, complete with watermelon and homemade ice cream. When I get home, I will probably light a candle rather than a bonfire to celebrate the glory of the sun, but I know that we will be kicking off a summer full of long days running in the sprinklers, trips to the beach, and sun-kissed skin as we trundle off to bed.

What’s In a Name?

One of my best friends is pregnant with her first child and just found out that she’s having a girl. When she sent me the text, I asked “Does she have a name?”

“Work in progress.”

A few days later, she texted again, no hello, how you doing. Just this:

“How many Olivias are there in Gabe and Kate’s classes?”

“None. Why?”

“We’re thinking about Olivia but are worried it’s too common.”

I had Teresa ask Siri where Olivia lands on the Top 100 of girls names.

“Looks like it’s #3 on the Top 100.”

“I know.”

“Can her middle name be Grace so we can call her the OG?”

“No. Olivia Claire, mom’s middle name.”

“I love it. Love it. And if you love it you should go with it and not worry about the other Olivias. That’s coming from a Jennifer. I know what I’m talking about.”

I was born in 1972, at the peak of Jennifer’s popularity. I spent the first 12 years of my life called Jenny F to distinguish me from the other five Jennys in the class. I survived. So will Olivia H.

“We are also thinking about Vivienne.”

“Vivi!”

She and I are Ya-Yas from way back. In fact, we ditched graduation duty to see the movie on the day it came out.

“Yes! Or Devynn. Or Blake.”

I’m down with the whole gender neutral naming trend. Devin was one of our boy names when I was pregnant with Annie. And we have two Quinns in our close circle. My kids call them “Boy Quinn” and “Girl Quinn” to keep them straight in conversation.

“When we were picking, I would imagine hearing the name on a loudspeaker or see it running along the bottom of the screen on ESPN.”

No, I am not kidding.

“That’s all I do, too.”

“Midfielder Olivia H— Or, midfielder Vivi H—“

“Mine more says “US Olympic Gold Medalist”

“Now playing on center court…”

“Now you’re with me!”

“Do all moms pick names this way or is it just us?”

Dana did it too. She was kicking around Cossette when she was pregnant with Violet. Then I made her think about the trash-talking across the net if the 6’3’ setter was named Cossette. I got your Castle on a Cloud, b***h!

Needless to say, picking a name is a big responsibility.

The year that Gabriel was two, I wrote my family names on the board for a project, and one of my students raised his hand and asked if my son was the only one in the family with a Mexican name. I laughed, because I have taught some wonderful Gabriels in my career—all of whom happened to be Mexican American—but we picked his name for the archangel, the right hand of God, defender of the light against the dark. Which is probably how the other Gabriels got their names as well.

I took full advantage of Shea’s English heritage to choose queen’s names for my girls.

Kathryn Grace was the first ever baby name that popped into my head when I found out I was pregnant with Gabe. It took two more years before we got our Kate. When I call her Kate, I see Katherine Hepburn, and hope that she takes the same big strides in the world, with the same sense of humor and maybe a little less booze.

Anne’s full name is Anne Elizabeth, which I justified because Ann is my mom’s middle name and Elizabeth was my grandmother’s middle name. But that’s a pretty regal name on a little girl. When I “Anne Elizabeth!” her in my mom voice, people always stop to look.

Olivia/Vivienne/Devynn/Blake’s mom actually asked me after Anne was born if I was naming my daughters in the order of Henry VIII’s wives on purpose and if the next one would be a Jane.

That made me laugh too. Because, kind of. And maybe. Let’s face it: you take the jerk husband out of the equation and those women were pretty bad ass.

So to answer the question: hope, dreams, love, Bible, family, culture, tradition. And maybe a wee bit of humor.

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this: