So, I am really feeling serious that I am going to give up being a musician within the next few years. What will likely be my "farewell" recital is set to take place on October 1st, and will be an all-Copland program. The program will open with the clarinet concerto, paying homage to the young girl who decided that music was the center of her life and would stop at nothing to achieve what others deemed impossible. I am also playing the Appalachian Spring original version for 13 instruments (and practically going broke for it), fulfilling a dream I've had since the summer of 1989, when I first fell in love with Copland's music after hearing the orchestral version of the same work at music camp.
Aaron Copland died in December of 1990, just days before my audition at Ithaca College, where I got my music degree. I was performing the cadenza from his concerto as the main selection of my audition program, having lived with it for the year prior. I remember feeling very connected to him because so much of the music we play is written by composers who are long dead...but my maturity on the Copland concerto spans time he was alive as well as post-mortem.
I've been nagged lately by an inexplicable urge to learn about a lesser-known work of Copland's, entitled As It Fell Upon a Day for clarinet, flute, and soprano voice. After reading the words, I understand why I feel the need to perform the piece on this recital.
None alive will pity me...my heart is breaking in two as I decide to abandon my music career. I simply cannot continue in the environment my workplace has become. The negativity, stupidity, senselessness of it all have taken over and eclipsed my love for music.
None alive will pity me...but they've taken my very soul away.
As It Fell Upon a Day (Words from Richard Barnefield)
Ah.
As it fell upon a day,
In the merry month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade,
Which a grove of myrtles made
Beasts did leap and birds did sing
Trees did grow and plants did spring
Ev'rything did banish moan
Save the nightingale alone
She poor bird as all forlorn
Lean'd her breast up till a thorn
And there sung the doleful'st ditty
That to hear it was great pity
Fie
Now would she cry
Tereu, Tereu, by and by
That to hear her so complain
Scarce I could from tears refrain
For her griefs so lively shown
Made me think upon mine own
Ah! thought I thou mournst in vain
None takes pity on thy pain
Senseless trees they cannot hear thee
Ruthless bears they will not cheer thee
King Pandion he is dead
All thy friends are lapp'd in lead
All thy fellow birds do sing
Careless of thy sorrowing
Even so poor bird like thee
None alive will pity me
Ah.
(public domain)
Saturday, September 09, 2006
Monday, July 24, 2006
Flourish for Wind Band
Fall, 1987.
My adolescent world had been smashed to bits -- not by a boy, but because the new band director, John Lynch, put me 2nd chair to my then-best friend, Jeannette. It wasn't supposed to be that way. We were in the freshman band, and I was supposed to be the concertmistress. My fragile ego could tolerate nothing less.
Adding insult to injury every day in rehearsal was the fact that one piece we were working on, Vaughn-Williams' Flourish for Wind Band, had two distinct first clarinet parts -- Solo Clarinet I and Ripieno Clarinet I. Ripieno? What the heck was Ripieno? I didn't want to know, and I sure as heck didn't want to be playing it if it was the opposite of Solo.
Flourish for Wind Band isn't a technically demanding piece (unless you ask my then-dear friend Amy, who played principal trumpet and threatened to shit her pants every time she had to go for the 1st-ledger-line A), but it is good, valid music. John Lynch was the master of that -- exposing us to music that challenged our ability level but wasn't the tripe that most high school bands out there play.
It's on the program for this weekend's concerts. I'm playing 2nd clarinet and I don't feel any significant attachment or anxiety about playing 1st (but I was feeling a little antsy about playing 1st on Pineapple Poll, and I got my wish literally seconds before the downbeat when our principal player realized he needed 2 on Solo to cover divided parts -- so I'm playing 1st and am very happy about it).
I've been feeling lately that my days as a clarinet player are getting numbered -- I am grossly unhappy in the band and feel that a change is imminent and I won't be playing anymore. On the surface, I know it is a good idea, but deep down, I'm not sure I'll ever let go 100% of having been a musician. Anyway, a few seconds into the introduction of Flourish for Wind Band this morning had me choking back tears and sobs as I remembered John Lynch and his inspiration, as well as the obsessive motivation I had in the fall of 1987 to be the very best.
Weeks after being seated behind Jeannette, before we ever played Flourish for Wind Band in concert, I won first chair in the high school all-county band, out-playing students in grades 9-12. Jeannette was selected to be an alternate, more than 20 spots behind me. I came out on top, but in doing so, I believe I began the process of alienating Jeannette. She was one of many friends I loved and lost in high school, probably because my intensity made people uncomfortable and my drive made me appear self-centered. I saw her during the summer of 1994, at an outdoor bar in Buffalo. She was visibly uncomfortable to have run into me, and I later heard that she reported negative impressions of me to the grapevine of our old circles.
My adolescent world had been smashed to bits -- not by a boy, but because the new band director, John Lynch, put me 2nd chair to my then-best friend, Jeannette. It wasn't supposed to be that way. We were in the freshman band, and I was supposed to be the concertmistress. My fragile ego could tolerate nothing less.
Adding insult to injury every day in rehearsal was the fact that one piece we were working on, Vaughn-Williams' Flourish for Wind Band, had two distinct first clarinet parts -- Solo Clarinet I and Ripieno Clarinet I. Ripieno? What the heck was Ripieno? I didn't want to know, and I sure as heck didn't want to be playing it if it was the opposite of Solo.
Flourish for Wind Band isn't a technically demanding piece (unless you ask my then-dear friend Amy, who played principal trumpet and threatened to shit her pants every time she had to go for the 1st-ledger-line A), but it is good, valid music. John Lynch was the master of that -- exposing us to music that challenged our ability level but wasn't the tripe that most high school bands out there play.
It's on the program for this weekend's concerts. I'm playing 2nd clarinet and I don't feel any significant attachment or anxiety about playing 1st (but I was feeling a little antsy about playing 1st on Pineapple Poll, and I got my wish literally seconds before the downbeat when our principal player realized he needed 2 on Solo to cover divided parts -- so I'm playing 1st and am very happy about it).
I've been feeling lately that my days as a clarinet player are getting numbered -- I am grossly unhappy in the band and feel that a change is imminent and I won't be playing anymore. On the surface, I know it is a good idea, but deep down, I'm not sure I'll ever let go 100% of having been a musician. Anyway, a few seconds into the introduction of Flourish for Wind Band this morning had me choking back tears and sobs as I remembered John Lynch and his inspiration, as well as the obsessive motivation I had in the fall of 1987 to be the very best.
Weeks after being seated behind Jeannette, before we ever played Flourish for Wind Band in concert, I won first chair in the high school all-county band, out-playing students in grades 9-12. Jeannette was selected to be an alternate, more than 20 spots behind me. I came out on top, but in doing so, I believe I began the process of alienating Jeannette. She was one of many friends I loved and lost in high school, probably because my intensity made people uncomfortable and my drive made me appear self-centered. I saw her during the summer of 1994, at an outdoor bar in Buffalo. She was visibly uncomfortable to have run into me, and I later heard that she reported negative impressions of me to the grapevine of our old circles.
Saturday, July 22, 2006
Identity Crisis
I think an identity crisis is my real problem. But, who wants to hear someone like me, who's "got it all," complain about feeling like I don't have anything?
My problem stems from trying to balance the fact that I'm a desperately independent individual, possessing a very concrete and real need for alone time, with the reality that I'm someone's wife, someone's subordinate, and two people's mother...among other things too numerous and complicated to list.
I love my husband, adore my kids, and hate my job -- but all three are necessary in my world...and all three suck all of my energy and there's so little left for...me.
Writing is one thing I enjoy and vowed to do more of last year when I was on vacation and trying to come up wiht a plan for my life. I do write some, but I don't feel like it's enough. I want to write more, and I want to get better at writing and expressing myself. I feel like I have a lot to say and there are certain niches that might actually care to read about it.
I've taken up running again, because it's the only thing I do that feels good physically, mentally, and emotionally (after I stop -- while I'm doing it, I feel like I might die). But, it's the first thing to go when life gets crazy, and, let's face it: my life is always crazy.
I practiced the Copland clarinet concerto tonight. For many reasons, I've decided to perform it in recital this fall. That piece defined me for many years -- I was the rare high school clarinetist who attempted it and played it well - the piece helped me prove my mettle as a musician. My freshman year of college, I played the cadenza for my seating audition and shook the school up -- getting 2nd chair in the wind ensemble. I performed it for my senior recital, as well...but haven't played it since. It's been over 11 years. Tonight, I remembered a lot of things about playing that piece -- why I originally chose it just before my junior year of high school, living with it the way a musician has to live with a piece of music, the people I shared my progress with, how the melodies and rhythms fit into my life at that time. (On a side note -- I think part of why my connection to my past is so strong has to do with being a musician. Hearing music 10, 15 years later rouses a part of my brain that stored away all my emotional trappings of the time I first heard the music. The muscle memory of performing music does the same thing. It's amazing, a little scary, and slightly annoying.)
As happy as I am to no longer have to define myself as a clarinet player, gosh -- it was so easy to just define myself as a clarinet player!
Who am I? Can a rogue independent woman exist inside the body of a cog in everyone's machine? Where is the balance? How do I find the line between self-care and selfishness?
My problem stems from trying to balance the fact that I'm a desperately independent individual, possessing a very concrete and real need for alone time, with the reality that I'm someone's wife, someone's subordinate, and two people's mother...among other things too numerous and complicated to list.
I love my husband, adore my kids, and hate my job -- but all three are necessary in my world...and all three suck all of my energy and there's so little left for...me.
Writing is one thing I enjoy and vowed to do more of last year when I was on vacation and trying to come up wiht a plan for my life. I do write some, but I don't feel like it's enough. I want to write more, and I want to get better at writing and expressing myself. I feel like I have a lot to say and there are certain niches that might actually care to read about it.
I've taken up running again, because it's the only thing I do that feels good physically, mentally, and emotionally (after I stop -- while I'm doing it, I feel like I might die). But, it's the first thing to go when life gets crazy, and, let's face it: my life is always crazy.
I practiced the Copland clarinet concerto tonight. For many reasons, I've decided to perform it in recital this fall. That piece defined me for many years -- I was the rare high school clarinetist who attempted it and played it well - the piece helped me prove my mettle as a musician. My freshman year of college, I played the cadenza for my seating audition and shook the school up -- getting 2nd chair in the wind ensemble. I performed it for my senior recital, as well...but haven't played it since. It's been over 11 years. Tonight, I remembered a lot of things about playing that piece -- why I originally chose it just before my junior year of high school, living with it the way a musician has to live with a piece of music, the people I shared my progress with, how the melodies and rhythms fit into my life at that time. (On a side note -- I think part of why my connection to my past is so strong has to do with being a musician. Hearing music 10, 15 years later rouses a part of my brain that stored away all my emotional trappings of the time I first heard the music. The muscle memory of performing music does the same thing. It's amazing, a little scary, and slightly annoying.)
As happy as I am to no longer have to define myself as a clarinet player, gosh -- it was so easy to just define myself as a clarinet player!
Who am I? Can a rogue independent woman exist inside the body of a cog in everyone's machine? Where is the balance? How do I find the line between self-care and selfishness?
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Purging
Today is the day before my colonoscopy. My job today is to allow my colon to get completely purged. This is accomplished by fasting (I've had nothing to eat since midnight), drinking only clear fluids, and, in about an hour, starting to drink this phospho-soda stuff that is going to finish the job in a big hurry. My instructions read "stay close to the toilet after taking this preparation." Should be interesting.
Ironically, yesterday, I experienced a purging of another sort -- while trying to archive several hundred old e-mail messages onto a "jump drive," I somehow made a grave error and lost every message I had in my Outlook Box -- every deleted item, sent item, special folder, and the entire inbox. I lost over 1000 messages. They might be somewhere on my computer...but only a serious techie would find them and my quasi-techie friends looked as hard as they could, to no avail.
At first, I couldn't breathe. I rely on my e-mail for so many things! I had neglected to save a lot of attachments to my hard drive because...why bother? I have the e-mail! (Luckily, I didn't do this too much -- I recently went through and cleaned house a bit, saving the attachments I wanted...I only lost some recent release forms, session outlines, and the like for some speaking and writing engagements I have coming up. I should be able to contact folks and recover them.)
A lot of the e-mail I had saved was sentiments from people, friends or fellow list members, saying nice things to me. On a tough day, a low self-concept day, I'd go through them and remind myself that people do like me and I've impacted on the world a little bit. The tangible reminder is gone, but somehow I still know it's all true.
I'm beginning to accept, even embrace the new, empty, clean slate in my Outlook mail program now. (What makes the situation easier is that somehow, the function that remembers who I am sending mail to remained intact -- I can still type the first letter of a person's name in the "to" line and get that person's address. This is huge, because all "contacts" are gone.) Perhaps it was time to purge.
I'm feeling anxious and scared about the next 20 hours or so, though. I don't want to take the Fleet Phospho-Sodas I was given at my pre-op appointment. I want to have some tortilla chips and bean dip. I want some popcorn, maybe some cheese. I'm hungry!
I don't know what the doctor is going to see when he does the colonoscopy. I have a hunch, but who knows? I've been trying to talk to Bryan about it, but he refuses. "Let's not worry about things until they're real -- let's not think about 'what ifs' right now." He's right.
In about 20 hours, my purge will be over, and I will eat something very satisfying. I'll also have a "clean slate" to start out with, which I will likely learn to accept and embrace. Perhaps, it was time to purge.
Ironically, yesterday, I experienced a purging of another sort -- while trying to archive several hundred old e-mail messages onto a "jump drive," I somehow made a grave error and lost every message I had in my Outlook Box -- every deleted item, sent item, special folder, and the entire inbox. I lost over 1000 messages. They might be somewhere on my computer...but only a serious techie would find them and my quasi-techie friends looked as hard as they could, to no avail.
At first, I couldn't breathe. I rely on my e-mail for so many things! I had neglected to save a lot of attachments to my hard drive because...why bother? I have the e-mail! (Luckily, I didn't do this too much -- I recently went through and cleaned house a bit, saving the attachments I wanted...I only lost some recent release forms, session outlines, and the like for some speaking and writing engagements I have coming up. I should be able to contact folks and recover them.)
A lot of the e-mail I had saved was sentiments from people, friends or fellow list members, saying nice things to me. On a tough day, a low self-concept day, I'd go through them and remind myself that people do like me and I've impacted on the world a little bit. The tangible reminder is gone, but somehow I still know it's all true.
I'm beginning to accept, even embrace the new, empty, clean slate in my Outlook mail program now. (What makes the situation easier is that somehow, the function that remembers who I am sending mail to remained intact -- I can still type the first letter of a person's name in the "to" line and get that person's address. This is huge, because all "contacts" are gone.) Perhaps it was time to purge.
I'm feeling anxious and scared about the next 20 hours or so, though. I don't want to take the Fleet Phospho-Sodas I was given at my pre-op appointment. I want to have some tortilla chips and bean dip. I want some popcorn, maybe some cheese. I'm hungry!
I don't know what the doctor is going to see when he does the colonoscopy. I have a hunch, but who knows? I've been trying to talk to Bryan about it, but he refuses. "Let's not worry about things until they're real -- let's not think about 'what ifs' right now." He's right.
In about 20 hours, my purge will be over, and I will eat something very satisfying. I'll also have a "clean slate" to start out with, which I will likely learn to accept and embrace. Perhaps, it was time to purge.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
That which we desire
Desiderata:
Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time. Exercise caution in your business affairs; for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals; and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be, and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.
Max Ehrmann, Desiderata, Copyright 1952.
I'd like to take this piece of writing, which I try to read as often as possible, and expand upon each bit. There's just too much truth in "that which we desire" for me to not take the time to explore it.
Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time. Exercise caution in your business affairs; for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals; and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be, and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.
Max Ehrmann, Desiderata, Copyright 1952.
I'd like to take this piece of writing, which I try to read as often as possible, and expand upon each bit. There's just too much truth in "that which we desire" for me to not take the time to explore it.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Anna, The Reflective Listener
So, my little girl, age 3, knocks my socks off on a regular basis. I mean, she's just incredible as a rule...but today, I couldn't believe how amazing she was.
Yesterday, we found out that neither I or my husband had been selected for promotion at work. There were 6 promotions -- we both felt (as did most of our co-workers) that I was a sure thing for one of them. We thought he had an outside chance, as well.
I took the news rather well -- my heart hasn't been in that job since I gave birth to Anna and I sort of embrace this latest slap in the face as motivation to get moving, fast, on getting a job as an Internationally Board Certified Lactation Consultant (IBCLC). I've always been drawn to the medical field and to work in an allied health capacity like that seems like the perfect fit for me.
Bryan was and continues to be livid, just raging mad (not about him, about me -- he feels like I was wronged beyond belief).
Anyway, this morning, I offered to drive Anna to school because I wasn't hungry for breakfast anyway -- Bryan and I are both just sick trying to process all of this information and make big life decisions. When we got in the car, the conversation went like this:
Anna: Mamma, how come you're not hungry today?
Me: Well, sweetie, some bad things happened at work yesterday and I'm not very happy about them.
Anna: Are you angry and sad?
Me: Yes, baby, I'm feeling angry and sad.
Anna: What happened?
Me: They were picking some people to be special leaders at work, and they didn't pick me or daddy, so we feel hurt.
Anna: Were they mean?
Me: Yes, I guess they were mean.
Anna: Mom, just *deal* with it! (undoubtedly a reflection of what we say to her on a regular basis!)
Me: (holding back a laugh) I am, sweetie. I have a lot of other things to be happy about.
Anna: (sighs) So, do you want to talk about this?
Me: (still trying not to laugh) Sure, baby. Let's talk about it.
Anna: OK. So. They picked special leaders at work, and they were mean and didn't pick you or daddy, so you are feeling angry and sad and hurt. Is that right?
My daughter, the reflective listener, gave me a world of perspective this morning. We're doing something very, very right.
Yesterday, we found out that neither I or my husband had been selected for promotion at work. There were 6 promotions -- we both felt (as did most of our co-workers) that I was a sure thing for one of them. We thought he had an outside chance, as well.
I took the news rather well -- my heart hasn't been in that job since I gave birth to Anna and I sort of embrace this latest slap in the face as motivation to get moving, fast, on getting a job as an Internationally Board Certified Lactation Consultant (IBCLC). I've always been drawn to the medical field and to work in an allied health capacity like that seems like the perfect fit for me.
Bryan was and continues to be livid, just raging mad (not about him, about me -- he feels like I was wronged beyond belief).
Anyway, this morning, I offered to drive Anna to school because I wasn't hungry for breakfast anyway -- Bryan and I are both just sick trying to process all of this information and make big life decisions. When we got in the car, the conversation went like this:
Anna: Mamma, how come you're not hungry today?
Me: Well, sweetie, some bad things happened at work yesterday and I'm not very happy about them.
Anna: Are you angry and sad?
Me: Yes, baby, I'm feeling angry and sad.
Anna: What happened?
Me: They were picking some people to be special leaders at work, and they didn't pick me or daddy, so we feel hurt.
Anna: Were they mean?
Me: Yes, I guess they were mean.
Anna: Mom, just *deal* with it! (undoubtedly a reflection of what we say to her on a regular basis!)
Me: (holding back a laugh) I am, sweetie. I have a lot of other things to be happy about.
Anna: (sighs) So, do you want to talk about this?
Me: (still trying not to laugh) Sure, baby. Let's talk about it.
Anna: OK. So. They picked special leaders at work, and they were mean and didn't pick you or daddy, so you are feeling angry and sad and hurt. Is that right?
My daughter, the reflective listener, gave me a world of perspective this morning. We're doing something very, very right.
Monday, May 01, 2006
Health and Denial
I'm stuck in this funny place where I can't really tell whether I'm being stupid or sane.
I don't like doctors, I don't like the notion that someone knows my body bettter than I do, I am not interested in medication and invasive intervention for the most part.
I feel that I have a good working understanding of my body and its functions, probably better than that of the average American doctor-worshipper.
That said, it's entirely possible that my desire to avoid doctors might have gone a little too far.
I have found an MD I really like -- she supports my extended breastfeeding, and has worked really hard to help me find answers to the extreme exhaustion I've experienced over the last two years -- exhaustion beyond that which is normal for a mother of two young children.
I haven't told her everything, though, in all of the visits I've made to her since August of last year, when I had gotten sick of fainting and feeling lousy all the time. I told her what I thought was relevant to the situation -- that I couldn't digest "easy" foods, that I was tired all the time, fainting at work, couldn't sleep at night. She told me about Addison's disease and suggested I had a lesser but similar condition called adrenal fatigue. I looked it up and, sure enough, I fit the profile of a patient wiht fizzled-out adrenals. The most remarkable thing was my blood pressure, a whopping 70/45.
I started working to get more rest and take better care of myself. I felt marginally better, but all the sleep in the world wasn't helping the exhaustion abate. My doctor ran some tests; surprisingly, I am iron deficient. I've started supplementing with liquid iron and I feel a lot better, after 10 days of faithful consumption.
But, I still haven't told her everything.
I took my little Anna to see the pediatrician the other day, because sometimes, when I wipe her bottom, there is blood on the paper. I was concerned about why a little girl of 3 might have rectal bleeding and whether she was losing any significant amount of blood.
The pediatrician turned the appointment around to me, about my own history.
I told him everything.
He scared the living daylights out of me and now, I am going back to my doctor to tell her everything. I'm going to tell her that I've been losing disarming amounts of blood in the toilet since May of last year, which is likely contributing to my iron deficiency and my exhaustion. I'm likely going to need some kind of colonoscopy, which I just don't want to make the time for.
My instincts don't tell me I'm sick, and I don't think there's anything wrong with me, but the doctor said "This isn't about you anymore. You have children, and you owe it to them to take the best care of yourself that you can."
What's funny is that, when asked about my chief complaint about my parents, it's that they don't take care of themselves.
Maybe the apple doesn't fall as far from the tree as I thought it did.
I don't like doctors, I don't like the notion that someone knows my body bettter than I do, I am not interested in medication and invasive intervention for the most part.
I feel that I have a good working understanding of my body and its functions, probably better than that of the average American doctor-worshipper.
That said, it's entirely possible that my desire to avoid doctors might have gone a little too far.
I have found an MD I really like -- she supports my extended breastfeeding, and has worked really hard to help me find answers to the extreme exhaustion I've experienced over the last two years -- exhaustion beyond that which is normal for a mother of two young children.
I haven't told her everything, though, in all of the visits I've made to her since August of last year, when I had gotten sick of fainting and feeling lousy all the time. I told her what I thought was relevant to the situation -- that I couldn't digest "easy" foods, that I was tired all the time, fainting at work, couldn't sleep at night. She told me about Addison's disease and suggested I had a lesser but similar condition called adrenal fatigue. I looked it up and, sure enough, I fit the profile of a patient wiht fizzled-out adrenals. The most remarkable thing was my blood pressure, a whopping 70/45.
I started working to get more rest and take better care of myself. I felt marginally better, but all the sleep in the world wasn't helping the exhaustion abate. My doctor ran some tests; surprisingly, I am iron deficient. I've started supplementing with liquid iron and I feel a lot better, after 10 days of faithful consumption.
But, I still haven't told her everything.
I took my little Anna to see the pediatrician the other day, because sometimes, when I wipe her bottom, there is blood on the paper. I was concerned about why a little girl of 3 might have rectal bleeding and whether she was losing any significant amount of blood.
The pediatrician turned the appointment around to me, about my own history.
I told him everything.
He scared the living daylights out of me and now, I am going back to my doctor to tell her everything. I'm going to tell her that I've been losing disarming amounts of blood in the toilet since May of last year, which is likely contributing to my iron deficiency and my exhaustion. I'm likely going to need some kind of colonoscopy, which I just don't want to make the time for.
My instincts don't tell me I'm sick, and I don't think there's anything wrong with me, but the doctor said "This isn't about you anymore. You have children, and you owe it to them to take the best care of yourself that you can."
What's funny is that, when asked about my chief complaint about my parents, it's that they don't take care of themselves.
Maybe the apple doesn't fall as far from the tree as I thought it did.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
My breasts, for better or for worse
My mother has big breasts. Her mother has, basically, no breasts. My dad's mother -- her breasts were huge, but she had only one leg so her breasts were never much of an issue to me (she was a diabetic amputee and not very nice and I was terrified of her). My dad's sisters both have enormous breasts. I didn't inherit my maternal grandmother's genes.
I remember asking my mother when I was young, after a bath, "Mommy, when will my nee-nees look like yours?" I pulled on them, as if to stretch them out. She told me when I grew up, they would look like hers.
I needed a bra in 5th grade. I was a skinny little thing with big boobs. Then puberty hit hard and I was a short, stubby little thing, with even bigger boobs. I'm only 5 feet tall.
I was wearing minimizers, size 36C, in 7th grade. Other girls could wear cute, strappy things, sleeveless tops, v-neck shirts, but not me! I hid in billowy t-shirts and chunky sweaters. I was so embarrassed.
I was never the last girl picked in gym class, rather, I was quite athletic...until the jokes about whether I'd get a black eye started -- "Hey Diana, don't run too fast, or you might knock yourself out with one of those things!"
The jokes came from my father. Perhaps he was uncomfortable with the sexual development of his little girl. More likely, he needed someone to pick on because his work environment was so toxic. Regardless of his motives, he hurt me. I began secretly hating my breasts, and the rest of my body. I couldn't find clothes to fit or flatter. I looked hideous, with no sense of style. My hair was curly, not "feathered" like everyone else's...I didn't wear make-up, I was disgusted with my appearance.
Yet, I found myself in the spotlight often. I was a superstar on the clarinet, "first chair" everywhere I went...and nothing could shake my confidence in that venue.
But, back to my breasts.
In college, I developed an eating disorder (well, it developed before that but college was the first place I had control over my food intake) and lost some weight. I never got "anorexic looking," but I did get pretty sick. My boobs were a 34D, and very popular with the boys. They always said it was my smile, though, that drew them to me. And the gay ones, not out of the closet yet, swore it was my personality that made me their "last ditch" at being straight. Imagine my self-esteem when guys asked me out and came out of the closet the following month!
So this eating disorder came to a head my senior year, and I got some therapy. It was a very structured program. My breasts weren't involved, really.
I began to feel more comfortable with myself. I learned how to buy clothes. I enlisted in the Army (to be a musician, by the way, I had won an audition already) and went to basic training, where my female drill sergeant told me daily to "harness those doggone provocations." Apparently, I hadn't discovered good sports bras...and there certainly weren't any available to me on an Army post. She yelled at me like I was some kind of slut -- "don't go wigglin' those jugs around thinkin' they're gonna git you anything special..." she used to tell me.
I reported to my band after basic training. My first week there, I heard men in their locker room -- "Have you seen the new clarinet player? Have you seen her boobs?" I was too naive to worry about a sexually hostile work environment. I just wanted a boyfriend.
A boyfriend I got, one who told me he'd help me get fit, lose weight, and have a good body. I married him. He had no interest in my breasts, but was very interested in cutting all fat out of my diet because he didn't want a fat wife. He was also interested in internet porn, things no Christian woman could ever imagine. He wanted me to look at pictures with him that were horrific. I'm not talking your standard porn here. I'm talking cracked-up counter-culture weird ass shit.
I divorced him.
A few weeks after I left him, I let a pianist play with my breasts one evening. We were great friends and he was really quite impressed with them. This experience still uplifts me today! (He called them my "orbs of happiness.")
The summer after I turned 26, I was single and having a good time with my life. I was dating some, and I was pretty taken with Bryan, a trumpet player at work. We were best friends, but nothing more.
I was running marathons at this point. I had severe chafing across my rib cage and shoulders. I had rashes under my breasts. When I went for my annual well-woman exam, the nurse practitioner examining me blurted out, "Honey! Why haven't you had these things reduced? They're obviously a problem!" A problem? I hadn't thought of them that way. Yes, hated them, I hated the backaches, the bra shopping (and spending! I can't get a bra that works for less than $40), the feeling that I had something to hide. I let her put me in for a referral to see a cosmetic surgeon.
Remember, I'm in the Army. All of my healthcare is free. I was to go to Walter Reed Army Medical Center in D.C. to get evaluated for a breast reduction.
Again, I remind you, I'm in the Army. In order to authorize the trip, many people where I work knew where I was going -- and why.
The doctor who saw me agreed I was a candidate for reduction surgery. I fantasized about strappy sundresses, lacy bras, bikini swimsuits. I wasn't overweight -- I wore a size 8 pants -- but needed at least a 12 for my top.
He told me he wouldn't reduce me. Not until after I was done having children...which incensed me! Why was everything based on my status as a single, childless woman? Why couldn't my life begin anew NOW?
The week after I saw that doctor, I traveled to the country of my ancestry, Malta. My father was born there. My luggage got lost, and I had no clothes. I had to go shopping, which, in Malta, isn't like it is here in the U.S. Malta is a very small country. Department stores, as we know them, do not exist there. I ventured in to a women's clothing store, and told the male associate, "I'm hard to fit. My body isn't like other peoples'." He asked me to look around -- which body did not look like mine?
My feelings toward my breasts changed in that very instant. In Malta, everyone was short, with dark curly hair and really big boobs! The "minimizers" started at size F cups...not C like here in the states. ALL THE A AND B CUP BRAS WERE IN A SEPARATE DRAWER! This was no Victoria's Secret, where only two bras in stock would even go around my body without splitting at the seams. This was a place for MY body!
I stocked up on cheap bras that fit. I spent my vacation (which, by the way, was a solo trip) happier than a pig in mud. I met lots of people and radiated a confidence I never felt before.
I returned home. Bryan and I started to progress with our relationship and were engaged less than a year later. We took our honeymoon in the Caribbean, where some women went topless. I wasn't ready to show my breasts to the public at large yet, though.
Bryan is not a "breast man." My now 34DD's were not terribly interesting to him. He loves my smile and my legs but doesn't have much to say about my breasts.
That doesn't matter.
Anna Maria, my perfect little baby girl, adores my breasts. They provide her with nourishment, comfort, warmth, and contentment. I wonder what life was like before my breasts had such an important function. I can't imagine a time when they will be mere decorations under my sweaters again.
When I was pregnant with Anna, I was fascinated with the drops of colostrum I could squeeze out of my nipples. I never imagined the flow of milk that would come from them. I was both delighted and disgusted when it came...there was so much, and I was always leaking.
I am now thankful for my breasts, the very same ones that brought me shame and hatred before. My breasts are healthy. My mother had a portion of her right breast removed last year...she is now a breast cancer survivor. She never breastfed us. She was always "the most highly developed girl in the whole class" (according to my father), but I often wonder how she feels about her breasts, other than that they're a burden to shop for and one harbored a deadly tumor.
I am again pregnant and I find myself with mixed emotions about my breasts. They feel "too big" for my body, though they still nourish Anna Maria. They hurt. They may become a point of contention between my daughter and myself, should I need to set limits on her nursing for my own sanity later in my pregnancy and when my new baby comes.
I look forward to the time when my breasts will provide sole nourishment for another life for 6 months. I also look forward to the time when I can wrap my breasts up tight again, and take my body for a run. I don't know when that day will come. --1 June 2004
I remember asking my mother when I was young, after a bath, "Mommy, when will my nee-nees look like yours?" I pulled on them, as if to stretch them out. She told me when I grew up, they would look like hers.
I needed a bra in 5th grade. I was a skinny little thing with big boobs. Then puberty hit hard and I was a short, stubby little thing, with even bigger boobs. I'm only 5 feet tall.
I was wearing minimizers, size 36C, in 7th grade. Other girls could wear cute, strappy things, sleeveless tops, v-neck shirts, but not me! I hid in billowy t-shirts and chunky sweaters. I was so embarrassed.
I was never the last girl picked in gym class, rather, I was quite athletic...until the jokes about whether I'd get a black eye started -- "Hey Diana, don't run too fast, or you might knock yourself out with one of those things!"
The jokes came from my father. Perhaps he was uncomfortable with the sexual development of his little girl. More likely, he needed someone to pick on because his work environment was so toxic. Regardless of his motives, he hurt me. I began secretly hating my breasts, and the rest of my body. I couldn't find clothes to fit or flatter. I looked hideous, with no sense of style. My hair was curly, not "feathered" like everyone else's...I didn't wear make-up, I was disgusted with my appearance.
Yet, I found myself in the spotlight often. I was a superstar on the clarinet, "first chair" everywhere I went...and nothing could shake my confidence in that venue.
But, back to my breasts.
In college, I developed an eating disorder (well, it developed before that but college was the first place I had control over my food intake) and lost some weight. I never got "anorexic looking," but I did get pretty sick. My boobs were a 34D, and very popular with the boys. They always said it was my smile, though, that drew them to me. And the gay ones, not out of the closet yet, swore it was my personality that made me their "last ditch" at being straight. Imagine my self-esteem when guys asked me out and came out of the closet the following month!
So this eating disorder came to a head my senior year, and I got some therapy. It was a very structured program. My breasts weren't involved, really.
I began to feel more comfortable with myself. I learned how to buy clothes. I enlisted in the Army (to be a musician, by the way, I had won an audition already) and went to basic training, where my female drill sergeant told me daily to "harness those doggone provocations." Apparently, I hadn't discovered good sports bras...and there certainly weren't any available to me on an Army post. She yelled at me like I was some kind of slut -- "don't go wigglin' those jugs around thinkin' they're gonna git you anything special..." she used to tell me.
I reported to my band after basic training. My first week there, I heard men in their locker room -- "Have you seen the new clarinet player? Have you seen her boobs?" I was too naive to worry about a sexually hostile work environment. I just wanted a boyfriend.
A boyfriend I got, one who told me he'd help me get fit, lose weight, and have a good body. I married him. He had no interest in my breasts, but was very interested in cutting all fat out of my diet because he didn't want a fat wife. He was also interested in internet porn, things no Christian woman could ever imagine. He wanted me to look at pictures with him that were horrific. I'm not talking your standard porn here. I'm talking cracked-up counter-culture weird ass shit.
I divorced him.
A few weeks after I left him, I let a pianist play with my breasts one evening. We were great friends and he was really quite impressed with them. This experience still uplifts me today! (He called them my "orbs of happiness.")
The summer after I turned 26, I was single and having a good time with my life. I was dating some, and I was pretty taken with Bryan, a trumpet player at work. We were best friends, but nothing more.
I was running marathons at this point. I had severe chafing across my rib cage and shoulders. I had rashes under my breasts. When I went for my annual well-woman exam, the nurse practitioner examining me blurted out, "Honey! Why haven't you had these things reduced? They're obviously a problem!" A problem? I hadn't thought of them that way. Yes, hated them, I hated the backaches, the bra shopping (and spending! I can't get a bra that works for less than $40), the feeling that I had something to hide. I let her put me in for a referral to see a cosmetic surgeon.
Remember, I'm in the Army. All of my healthcare is free. I was to go to Walter Reed Army Medical Center in D.C. to get evaluated for a breast reduction.
Again, I remind you, I'm in the Army. In order to authorize the trip, many people where I work knew where I was going -- and why.
The doctor who saw me agreed I was a candidate for reduction surgery. I fantasized about strappy sundresses, lacy bras, bikini swimsuits. I wasn't overweight -- I wore a size 8 pants -- but needed at least a 12 for my top.
He told me he wouldn't reduce me. Not until after I was done having children...which incensed me! Why was everything based on my status as a single, childless woman? Why couldn't my life begin anew NOW?
The week after I saw that doctor, I traveled to the country of my ancestry, Malta. My father was born there. My luggage got lost, and I had no clothes. I had to go shopping, which, in Malta, isn't like it is here in the U.S. Malta is a very small country. Department stores, as we know them, do not exist there. I ventured in to a women's clothing store, and told the male associate, "I'm hard to fit. My body isn't like other peoples'." He asked me to look around -- which body did not look like mine?
My feelings toward my breasts changed in that very instant. In Malta, everyone was short, with dark curly hair and really big boobs! The "minimizers" started at size F cups...not C like here in the states. ALL THE A AND B CUP BRAS WERE IN A SEPARATE DRAWER! This was no Victoria's Secret, where only two bras in stock would even go around my body without splitting at the seams. This was a place for MY body!
I stocked up on cheap bras that fit. I spent my vacation (which, by the way, was a solo trip) happier than a pig in mud. I met lots of people and radiated a confidence I never felt before.
I returned home. Bryan and I started to progress with our relationship and were engaged less than a year later. We took our honeymoon in the Caribbean, where some women went topless. I wasn't ready to show my breasts to the public at large yet, though.
Bryan is not a "breast man." My now 34DD's were not terribly interesting to him. He loves my smile and my legs but doesn't have much to say about my breasts.
That doesn't matter.
Anna Maria, my perfect little baby girl, adores my breasts. They provide her with nourishment, comfort, warmth, and contentment. I wonder what life was like before my breasts had such an important function. I can't imagine a time when they will be mere decorations under my sweaters again.
When I was pregnant with Anna, I was fascinated with the drops of colostrum I could squeeze out of my nipples. I never imagined the flow of milk that would come from them. I was both delighted and disgusted when it came...there was so much, and I was always leaking.
I am now thankful for my breasts, the very same ones that brought me shame and hatred before. My breasts are healthy. My mother had a portion of her right breast removed last year...she is now a breast cancer survivor. She never breastfed us. She was always "the most highly developed girl in the whole class" (according to my father), but I often wonder how she feels about her breasts, other than that they're a burden to shop for and one harbored a deadly tumor.
I am again pregnant and I find myself with mixed emotions about my breasts. They feel "too big" for my body, though they still nourish Anna Maria. They hurt. They may become a point of contention between my daughter and myself, should I need to set limits on her nursing for my own sanity later in my pregnancy and when my new baby comes.
I look forward to the time when my breasts will provide sole nourishment for another life for 6 months. I also look forward to the time when I can wrap my breasts up tight again, and take my body for a run. I don't know when that day will come. --1 June 2004
Monday, February 13, 2006
Supporting Working Moms who Breastfeed
It's not just about teaching them how to leave breastmilk behind, though many people seem to think that covers it. Here's what else I think:
The kind of support I really needed from La Leche League wasn't so much the pumping logistics, I had those figured out and could find other answers to "mechanical" questions online pretty easily. I appreciated the creative ideas about the SITUATION of a mom who has to separate from her baby (suggestions about how to keep baby close to mom, even in a more traditional work setting; suggestions about ways to negotiate some work from home to minimize the length of separations; reminders that there is no substitute for mother's milk or presence and maintaining the breastfeeding relationship serves both needs so well!).
Reminding the mothers that babies will likely reverse cycle at night after mom returns to work (and that this is normal and good) and suggesting ways for getting more rest (giving permission for a messy house, getting help with all things not related to personal care, baby care, or work) might be helpful.
Encouraging breastfeeding on demand round the clock when mother and baby are together will help extend the nursing relationship. One mom I worked with thought she should "cut" the nursing she'd miss when she was away from her child when they were together, so he wouldn't "expect" it when they were separated. I stressed to her that her absence alone would serve to let him know that he shouldn't expect to nurse, and that her presence alone would encourage him to nurse -- both good things (this child was over 1 year old and still nursing when she went back to work, and she truly wanted to make the separations as easy as possible on him).
A reminder that some breastmilk is better than no breastmilk might be appropriate. I've been heartbroken to see mothers who just couldn't keep up with their babies' demands completely throw in the towel. Do what you can to eliminate the "all or nothing" feeling a lot of mothers have IF they seem unwilling or unable to commit to exclusive EBM feeding and breastfeeding (of course, the ideal is to encourage as much breastfeeding and breastmilk as possible in the first place). Even if it comes down to baby nurses when they're together and gets 1-2 bottles each day of EBM, the rest ABM...that's still better than total weaning on all counts, especially in that it keeps the baby at the breast when mom is near and keeps mom motivated to be near as often as possible. This is a very important point. A mother who is no longer breastfeeding at all is less likely to stay attached to her baby in other ways...to many, the end of the nursing relationship "lets her off the hook" so to speak (which is very sad but is also an attitude I encounter a lot). Encouraging any mothering at the breast (and any pumping to keep production going) helps that mother have a real reason to hurry home to her baby and stay close to him as much as possible when she's not at work.
Fathers/partners MUST be supportive and involved! There are lots of ways to work on this.
It never hurts to offer a few tips on how to minimize judgemental statements from group members at La Leche League meetings when a mother who will be separating raises a question. I've been discouraged to hear stories from moms who work outside the home about experiences at meetings that have been really negative. A gentle reminder to Leaders that anyone who needs information about breastfeeding is welcome at our meetings, and some positive steps to ensure all mothers can feel supported in their breastfeeding needs are really important. These moms are already in a compromised situation by having to separate -- affirming their choice to keep breastfeeding and providing the tools to help them do so will be a great service to those mothers and their babies.
The kind of support I really needed from La Leche League wasn't so much the pumping logistics, I had those figured out and could find other answers to "mechanical" questions online pretty easily. I appreciated the creative ideas about the SITUATION of a mom who has to separate from her baby (suggestions about how to keep baby close to mom, even in a more traditional work setting; suggestions about ways to negotiate some work from home to minimize the length of separations; reminders that there is no substitute for mother's milk or presence and maintaining the breastfeeding relationship serves both needs so well!).
Reminding the mothers that babies will likely reverse cycle at night after mom returns to work (and that this is normal and good) and suggesting ways for getting more rest (giving permission for a messy house, getting help with all things not related to personal care, baby care, or work) might be helpful.
Encouraging breastfeeding on demand round the clock when mother and baby are together will help extend the nursing relationship. One mom I worked with thought she should "cut" the nursing she'd miss when she was away from her child when they were together, so he wouldn't "expect" it when they were separated. I stressed to her that her absence alone would serve to let him know that he shouldn't expect to nurse, and that her presence alone would encourage him to nurse -- both good things (this child was over 1 year old and still nursing when she went back to work, and she truly wanted to make the separations as easy as possible on him).
A reminder that some breastmilk is better than no breastmilk might be appropriate. I've been heartbroken to see mothers who just couldn't keep up with their babies' demands completely throw in the towel. Do what you can to eliminate the "all or nothing" feeling a lot of mothers have IF they seem unwilling or unable to commit to exclusive EBM feeding and breastfeeding (of course, the ideal is to encourage as much breastfeeding and breastmilk as possible in the first place). Even if it comes down to baby nurses when they're together and gets 1-2 bottles each day of EBM, the rest ABM...that's still better than total weaning on all counts, especially in that it keeps the baby at the breast when mom is near and keeps mom motivated to be near as often as possible. This is a very important point. A mother who is no longer breastfeeding at all is less likely to stay attached to her baby in other ways...to many, the end of the nursing relationship "lets her off the hook" so to speak (which is very sad but is also an attitude I encounter a lot). Encouraging any mothering at the breast (and any pumping to keep production going) helps that mother have a real reason to hurry home to her baby and stay close to him as much as possible when she's not at work.
Fathers/partners MUST be supportive and involved! There are lots of ways to work on this.
It never hurts to offer a few tips on how to minimize judgemental statements from group members at La Leche League meetings when a mother who will be separating raises a question. I've been discouraged to hear stories from moms who work outside the home about experiences at meetings that have been really negative. A gentle reminder to Leaders that anyone who needs information about breastfeeding is welcome at our meetings, and some positive steps to ensure all mothers can feel supported in their breastfeeding needs are really important. These moms are already in a compromised situation by having to separate -- affirming their choice to keep breastfeeding and providing the tools to help them do so will be a great service to those mothers and their babies.
Saturday, December 17, 2005
Big
Yeah, I'll admit it, finally. I, most proud of being non-mainstream in word and deed, am duly addicted to the TV show "Sex and the City." Very little will come in the way of my watching it every Tuesday night on TBS. There's a good chance I like it so much because it's the "abridged" version of the HBO series -- edited for primetime, sans full-on nudity and liberal use of the "F-word." I can see when they're swearing but a substitute word is always dubbed over. I still wouldn't let the TV be on while my daughter is awake, but I don't feel as polluted as if I were watching the unadulterated, pure original version (which I'm very tempted to ask for on DVD for my birthday, truth be told).
Anyway, I am very engrossed in the lives of Carrie Bradshaw, Charlotte York, Miranda Hobbes and Samantha Jones. I think about which woman I am (I'd say 50% Charlotte, 25% Miranda, 20% Carrie, 5% Samantha) and how my life compares to theirs. I'd say the most remarkable thing about my fascination with the show is that I never was 30-something and single. I never lived in the city -- any city, really. I never even wanted to have the lifestyle I so enjoy living vicariously through them...but now, as I am 32 (and a half!), married, two children, and a very stable career (everything I ever wanted), I find myself transfixed for 75 minutes each week by the colorful (if immoral) lives led by Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha. I don't even leave my chair for commercials.
The series is presented from the point of view of Carrie, a relationship columnist for a newspaper. Throughout the episodes, her relationship with one man, while not always the central focus, pervades...she refers to him as "Big." We don't find out his name until the final episode, when it flashes on her cell phone caller-ID (and I sort of wish I hadn't seen that last show until I'd seen all the others).
While my life couldn't be more different from the lives of my Tuesday night heroines, I, too, have a "Big" relationship.
He's The One That Got Away in some respects, even though I broke up with him and don't regret doing so...he was my first love. We met when we were 10 and things were tumultuous from the beginning. We dated in 11th grade and what a ride it was. I've had many relationships in my life, but this is the only one that was Big.
Like Carrie’s Big, my Big is evasive. Repeatedly, he’d be present, oh, so blissfully present, then gone – so painfully gone, leaving a big aching emptiness where he stood just a day before. Over the years, his coming and going has been on so many levels – first love, then friendship, then electronic pen pal (so unlike Carrie!). We’ve settled into a nice pattern of seeing each other every 5-1/2 years. I have yet to discover the significance of this time span, but it works for us. June 1993, December 1998, June 2004…our next meeting, probably with children everywhere and uncomfortable smiles between spouses, is cosmically scheduled for December of 2009, probably whether we like it or not, and whether we try to make it so or avoid it being so. We always promise “this time we won’t let so long pass…” but that’s just how it goes.
Carrie finds herself constantly challenged by Big – he’s smart, he asks the tough questions about her relationships and direction in life, and he lives his own Big Life. It’s the same with my Big. Our lifestyles are grossly incompatible, yet our lives fit right together…when both of us choose to make ourselves available to the possibility. That’s a difficult choice to make, because this Big Thing can get out of control pretty easily. So, there’s always the undercurrent of strife between us. Big Strife, representing our dual refusal to get along.
In Carrie’s life, it always comes back to Big. In the end, Carrie and Big finally get it together and probably live Happily Ever After. In my life, it always comes back to Big, but in the end, I doubt we’ll get it together in the literal sense, and certainly not happily. I have no desire to change the life I have, because I have everything I ever wanted. He likely feels the same about the circumstances he's created for himself. I have embraced the place in my life Big will always occupy, for better or for worse. There’s no letting go of Big, and that’s OK.
And there you have it, some of that deep and dark I promised.
Happy Birthday, Big.
Anyway, I am very engrossed in the lives of Carrie Bradshaw, Charlotte York, Miranda Hobbes and Samantha Jones. I think about which woman I am (I'd say 50% Charlotte, 25% Miranda, 20% Carrie, 5% Samantha) and how my life compares to theirs. I'd say the most remarkable thing about my fascination with the show is that I never was 30-something and single. I never lived in the city -- any city, really. I never even wanted to have the lifestyle I so enjoy living vicariously through them...but now, as I am 32 (and a half!), married, two children, and a very stable career (everything I ever wanted), I find myself transfixed for 75 minutes each week by the colorful (if immoral) lives led by Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha. I don't even leave my chair for commercials.
The series is presented from the point of view of Carrie, a relationship columnist for a newspaper. Throughout the episodes, her relationship with one man, while not always the central focus, pervades...she refers to him as "Big." We don't find out his name until the final episode, when it flashes on her cell phone caller-ID (and I sort of wish I hadn't seen that last show until I'd seen all the others).
While my life couldn't be more different from the lives of my Tuesday night heroines, I, too, have a "Big" relationship.
He's The One That Got Away in some respects, even though I broke up with him and don't regret doing so...he was my first love. We met when we were 10 and things were tumultuous from the beginning. We dated in 11th grade and what a ride it was. I've had many relationships in my life, but this is the only one that was Big.
Like Carrie’s Big, my Big is evasive. Repeatedly, he’d be present, oh, so blissfully present, then gone – so painfully gone, leaving a big aching emptiness where he stood just a day before. Over the years, his coming and going has been on so many levels – first love, then friendship, then electronic pen pal (so unlike Carrie!). We’ve settled into a nice pattern of seeing each other every 5-1/2 years. I have yet to discover the significance of this time span, but it works for us. June 1993, December 1998, June 2004…our next meeting, probably with children everywhere and uncomfortable smiles between spouses, is cosmically scheduled for December of 2009, probably whether we like it or not, and whether we try to make it so or avoid it being so. We always promise “this time we won’t let so long pass…” but that’s just how it goes.
Carrie finds herself constantly challenged by Big – he’s smart, he asks the tough questions about her relationships and direction in life, and he lives his own Big Life. It’s the same with my Big. Our lifestyles are grossly incompatible, yet our lives fit right together…when both of us choose to make ourselves available to the possibility. That’s a difficult choice to make, because this Big Thing can get out of control pretty easily. So, there’s always the undercurrent of strife between us. Big Strife, representing our dual refusal to get along.
In Carrie’s life, it always comes back to Big. In the end, Carrie and Big finally get it together and probably live Happily Ever After. In my life, it always comes back to Big, but in the end, I doubt we’ll get it together in the literal sense, and certainly not happily. I have no desire to change the life I have, because I have everything I ever wanted. He likely feels the same about the circumstances he's created for himself. I have embraced the place in my life Big will always occupy, for better or for worse. There’s no letting go of Big, and that’s OK.
And there you have it, some of that deep and dark I promised.
Happy Birthday, Big.
Saturday, October 15, 2005
Weaning, Part I
I call this "part I" because I am certain that it will be the first of many discussions I have with myself (and anyone else who cares to get into my brain) on the often-controversial subject of weaning.
Weaning is a prominent issue on my mind these days, as I am still happily (well, most days, anyway) nursing my almost three year-old daughter but facing the pressure and questions from the world at large about when Anna might stop. Nursing Anna can be hard some days, because I am also nursing her 13-month old brother, Simon…but in my mind, I can’t really imagine how I will relate to Anna when she stops asking for milk or announcing “milk time!” before we go settle down in bed together for the night.
If you ask me about “when” to wean, I cannot come up with a definitive answer. I used to think that one year would be a good, full term of breastfeeding a child. I guess I still do think 12 months is terrific, from a nutritional standpoint, anyway, but I believe that breastfeeding is about more than just food. As that one-year mark approached and Anna was showing no signs of giving up her “bock” (Anna’s primitive word for mamma-milk), I realized I had to reframe my ideas about when to wean her. Anna was slow to take solid food (and she has lots of food allergies) and was always a petite little girl; she nursed every 90 minutes or so through the night until she was 18 months old. In my quest to convince my husband that putting an arbitrary time limit on my nursing relationship with Anna was a bad idea, it started to occur to me: there is really no appropriate time limit, not one year, not three years, not any amount of time that I can forecast now and say “Anna will be done.”
That’s not to say I don’t fantasize, sometimes, about the day she will be finished with mamma milk. When I was toward the end of my pregnancy with Simon, I dreaded every nursing session with Anna, the contractions it gave me, the discomfort and even the mental anguish nursing her brought to me. I had several escapist methods, only one of which limited Anna herself – sometimes, I would count to 10 aloud, which she knew meant the end of the nursing session. Anna nursed even when there was no milk in my breasts. She was, of course, thrilled to pieces when the milk came in for Simon – and she promptly swore off all solid food (much to the chagrin of my visiting mother-in-law) until Simon was about 4 months old. She has since transitioned back to the eagerly eating little girl she was before Simon’s arrival.
I do set limits on Anna’s nursing now that she is more verbal and we can talk about her desires and mine, as well. The fact that, most days, it’s not difficult to dissuade her indicates to me that she is ready for this move. There are days that she insists on “one milk, mamma, ONE mamma milk, please” (while holding up one finger and looking directly at my face) – on those days, I oblige her request. Anna gets “wake up milk” first thing in the morning, and on some of the mornings I go to work, she gets “bye bye milk.” The first word out of her mouth most days upon my return home from work at noon is “milk?” That usually ends up being her “nap milk” while I chat with my friend Lisa, who is her caregiver while I’m gone (she is usually nursing her same-age daughter, Abigail, at the same time). Some days, she is groggy after her nap and needs some more “wake up milk,” and, if the rest of the day is a good day, without tantrums or disappointments, she’ll have “night night milk” after her bath. Most nights, Anna will wake up to use the potty between midnight and 2 a.m. – until a few weeks ago, I’d nurse her back down, but lately, my husband and I are encouraging her to accept him at that waking to go to the potty and climb into bed with us. I used to save my left breast (the slow-flow side) for her all night, because she used to use her arrival at my bedside to announce “milk time!” Now, she just climbs into bed and is content to hold a few strands of my hair between her thumb and forefinger to soothe herself back to sleep. I will admit, I look forward to her arrival in the night now, because I still miss having her there beside me. It doesn’t matter that Simon’s taken her place physically.
Do the limits I’m setting mean I want to wean Anna? I don’t think so, not yet. I do know I was looking for some relief a few months ago, when I felt a little bit like Anna was greedy. I felt guilty for thinking that of her – after all, it wasn’t her fault we spaced her sibling so close to her – but that was the reality. I couldn’t tell a 2-year old “you don’t know how good you have it!” because she doesn’t know that most kids her age were weaned against their will many months ago.
And that’s when it hits me, my incredibly protective sense about Anna’s nursing. Am I protective of it for my sake, or for hers? I’d have to say both…on her account, I know Anna still relies on nursing as a pick-me-up and as a definite way to have was a classic toddler, pushing away from me and coming back several times each day – forging her independence but needing reassurance that Mamma is still there for her. Now, as a pre-schooler, she is proud of her independence but still relies on those re-connection times each day. I’m happy to be steady in meeting her needs. As for me, like I said earlier, I’m not sure I can imagine relating to a non-nursing Anna just yet. We’re so at home nursing after a tantrum or when she’s stressed out. She drifts off for her nap so easily most days, just from nursing. I’m happy to still have this “trick” when we’re out at a restaurant and Anna’s about to “expire” just before dessert arrives (though she hasn't needed to nurse in public in a pretty long time). I also feel like our continued nursing relationship helps make up for the hours of separation we experience while I work outside the home, hours I spend feeling awful for being away (more on this in another essay). It is my desire to be pregnant again next year, but I’m pretty sure I don’t want to tandem nurse two children while pregnant. I know, then, that Anna’s weaning or not weaning will be a determining factor in how our family planning progresses, until the time arrives that I feel that my desire to become pregnant outweighs her need to still nurse. I feel confident that I will know this time has arrived, if it ever does.
I do not presume to know another mother’s threshold for the discomfort accompanied by nursing while pregnant, nor can I assume to know whether a mother can negotiate the demands of continuing to breastfeed after a return to work outside the home. I cannot decide for another mother that her child is too old to still nurse or that she should honor her child’s wishes to breastfeed after his second birthday. I can only relate how I have personally dealt with these circumstances and I can hopefully find a way to share that Anna’s well-being hinged on my ability to put her needs ahead of my own – a concept I think any mother can understand and connect with on some level. I hope my example speaks to the idea that our society’s common “excuses” for weaning did not influence my feeling that breastfeeding is more than nutrition and a child’s need for nursing is very real.
Weaning is a prominent issue on my mind these days, as I am still happily (well, most days, anyway) nursing my almost three year-old daughter but facing the pressure and questions from the world at large about when Anna might stop. Nursing Anna can be hard some days, because I am also nursing her 13-month old brother, Simon…but in my mind, I can’t really imagine how I will relate to Anna when she stops asking for milk or announcing “milk time!” before we go settle down in bed together for the night.
If you ask me about “when” to wean, I cannot come up with a definitive answer. I used to think that one year would be a good, full term of breastfeeding a child. I guess I still do think 12 months is terrific, from a nutritional standpoint, anyway, but I believe that breastfeeding is about more than just food. As that one-year mark approached and Anna was showing no signs of giving up her “bock” (Anna’s primitive word for mamma-milk), I realized I had to reframe my ideas about when to wean her. Anna was slow to take solid food (and she has lots of food allergies) and was always a petite little girl; she nursed every 90 minutes or so through the night until she was 18 months old. In my quest to convince my husband that putting an arbitrary time limit on my nursing relationship with Anna was a bad idea, it started to occur to me: there is really no appropriate time limit, not one year, not three years, not any amount of time that I can forecast now and say “Anna will be done.”
That’s not to say I don’t fantasize, sometimes, about the day she will be finished with mamma milk. When I was toward the end of my pregnancy with Simon, I dreaded every nursing session with Anna, the contractions it gave me, the discomfort and even the mental anguish nursing her brought to me. I had several escapist methods, only one of which limited Anna herself – sometimes, I would count to 10 aloud, which she knew meant the end of the nursing session. Anna nursed even when there was no milk in my breasts. She was, of course, thrilled to pieces when the milk came in for Simon – and she promptly swore off all solid food (much to the chagrin of my visiting mother-in-law) until Simon was about 4 months old. She has since transitioned back to the eagerly eating little girl she was before Simon’s arrival.
I do set limits on Anna’s nursing now that she is more verbal and we can talk about her desires and mine, as well. The fact that, most days, it’s not difficult to dissuade her indicates to me that she is ready for this move. There are days that she insists on “one milk, mamma, ONE mamma milk, please” (while holding up one finger and looking directly at my face) – on those days, I oblige her request. Anna gets “wake up milk” first thing in the morning, and on some of the mornings I go to work, she gets “bye bye milk.” The first word out of her mouth most days upon my return home from work at noon is “milk?” That usually ends up being her “nap milk” while I chat with my friend Lisa, who is her caregiver while I’m gone (she is usually nursing her same-age daughter, Abigail, at the same time). Some days, she is groggy after her nap and needs some more “wake up milk,” and, if the rest of the day is a good day, without tantrums or disappointments, she’ll have “night night milk” after her bath. Most nights, Anna will wake up to use the potty between midnight and 2 a.m. – until a few weeks ago, I’d nurse her back down, but lately, my husband and I are encouraging her to accept him at that waking to go to the potty and climb into bed with us. I used to save my left breast (the slow-flow side) for her all night, because she used to use her arrival at my bedside to announce “milk time!” Now, she just climbs into bed and is content to hold a few strands of my hair between her thumb and forefinger to soothe herself back to sleep. I will admit, I look forward to her arrival in the night now, because I still miss having her there beside me. It doesn’t matter that Simon’s taken her place physically.
Do the limits I’m setting mean I want to wean Anna? I don’t think so, not yet. I do know I was looking for some relief a few months ago, when I felt a little bit like Anna was greedy. I felt guilty for thinking that of her – after all, it wasn’t her fault we spaced her sibling so close to her – but that was the reality. I couldn’t tell a 2-year old “you don’t know how good you have it!” because she doesn’t know that most kids her age were weaned against their will many months ago.
And that’s when it hits me, my incredibly protective sense about Anna’s nursing. Am I protective of it for my sake, or for hers? I’d have to say both…on her account, I know Anna still relies on nursing as a pick-me-up and as a definite way to have was a classic toddler, pushing away from me and coming back several times each day – forging her independence but needing reassurance that Mamma is still there for her. Now, as a pre-schooler, she is proud of her independence but still relies on those re-connection times each day. I’m happy to be steady in meeting her needs. As for me, like I said earlier, I’m not sure I can imagine relating to a non-nursing Anna just yet. We’re so at home nursing after a tantrum or when she’s stressed out. She drifts off for her nap so easily most days, just from nursing. I’m happy to still have this “trick” when we’re out at a restaurant and Anna’s about to “expire” just before dessert arrives (though she hasn't needed to nurse in public in a pretty long time). I also feel like our continued nursing relationship helps make up for the hours of separation we experience while I work outside the home, hours I spend feeling awful for being away (more on this in another essay). It is my desire to be pregnant again next year, but I’m pretty sure I don’t want to tandem nurse two children while pregnant. I know, then, that Anna’s weaning or not weaning will be a determining factor in how our family planning progresses, until the time arrives that I feel that my desire to become pregnant outweighs her need to still nurse. I feel confident that I will know this time has arrived, if it ever does.
I do not presume to know another mother’s threshold for the discomfort accompanied by nursing while pregnant, nor can I assume to know whether a mother can negotiate the demands of continuing to breastfeed after a return to work outside the home. I cannot decide for another mother that her child is too old to still nurse or that she should honor her child’s wishes to breastfeed after his second birthday. I can only relate how I have personally dealt with these circumstances and I can hopefully find a way to share that Anna’s well-being hinged on my ability to put her needs ahead of my own – a concept I think any mother can understand and connect with on some level. I hope my example speaks to the idea that our society’s common “excuses” for weaning did not influence my feeling that breastfeeding is more than nutrition and a child’s need for nursing is very real.
Monday, May 30, 2005
Does anyone actually enjoy swimsuit shopping?
It's that time of year again. We've made our reservations for the great hotel on the beach (well, we think it's great) at the New Jersey shore. And I need a swimsuit, or two.
I don't think anyone actually likes to go shopping for a swimsuit -- it's one of those things that even I fit right into the mainstream on...sort of. I mean, I've spent a lot of time and mental energy learning to accept my body for what it is, for what it can do, and yes, for what it looks like. In that regard, I'd venture to say I'm a little more evolved than the average 32-year old woman, only because there was a time in my life when I was in a very, very bad place with my body image. I kicked and screamed through some very productive therapy...and I've made a commitment to show my daughter a positive attitude toward my own body. I don't want her to ever be in the place I have been in, that place of such severe hatred and loathing and total disconnect from this body that houses my soul.
I should mention that it's entirely possible that I am ignorant and I really have a hideously proportioned body...but I just don't feel that way these days. I feel like I've done something miraculous, twice, in growing, birthing, and feeding two children with my body. I weigh less now than I have in a long time. Other than the occasional indulgence of homemade baked goods or "I ate too much" social gathering, my diet is quite healthy, and I enjoy regular moderate exercise. I fit pretty comfortably into a size 10. No one's ever yelled "tidal wave!" when I've jumped into a swimming pool, nor have I been on the receiving end of any harpoons. Not ever.
Anyway, it's pretty universal that bathing suit shopping, for women, is at best a chore and at worst, torture. I've taken it to a whole new level, though -- I flat out refuse to go to a store and try anything on. I pore over catalogs and internet sites, desperately seeking something that will cover what the world was not meant to see and allow me to enjoy myself at the beach. Because I really, really love the beach.
So, I've just spent over two hours (which could have been better spent elsewise) in this quest. It's not as if I have nothing to wear to the beach this summer, it's just that I really feel like it's time for something new. The last suits I bought were during my pregnancies. Lands' End makes really great mix and match tops and bottoms, so I could adequately cover up my size 16 breasts and pregnant belly without worrying that my size 10 rear end would drown in fabric too big for it. I have a terrific red faille tankini and a blue patterned one, both of which fit when I'm great with child or in my current non-pregnant-and-trying-to-be-fit stage. I also have an awesome black tank suit, made from some "miracle" fabric that promises to take 10 pounds off. The 10 pounds don't exactly go anywhere, but they are very well-contained in this suit.
Except for my breasts. These bad boys refuse to be contained by the suit that does right by the rest of my body. Well, some women might be comfortable covering their nipples and letting 68% of each breast swell out the top of the suit...but I'm not one of those women. I'm going to be chasing my toddler daughter into the surf. I'm going to be on all fours, crawling in the sand with my baby son. I can't risk a black eye from an errant bounce, or a "falling out" because I push gravity too far -- I need total containment.
Enter the D-cup suit, or, in some styles from Eddie Bauer, the DD-cup suit. I've never actually tried one of these, but it would make logical sense that one might do the job, satisfying my desire for a suit that fits my body. The investment is pretty steep, though. There are no bargains in the D-cup world, not for bras or swimsuits or anything else. And, there's the big question -- which size should I get? If the top is made for size DD breasts, does that mean I can get a size 10? The size charts don't account for the extra boob-room. And by the way, accodring to those charts, my bust wears a size 16, my waist is a 10, and I'm an 8 in the hips. Hello, my name is Diana, and I suffer from multiple body part disorder.
Unfortunately, I'm not sure it even matters. The one suit I think I could wear and love, with a fabulously high neckline and a great print, is on backorder, not available until 6 weeks after my beach trip.
I don't think anyone actually likes to go shopping for a swimsuit -- it's one of those things that even I fit right into the mainstream on...sort of. I mean, I've spent a lot of time and mental energy learning to accept my body for what it is, for what it can do, and yes, for what it looks like. In that regard, I'd venture to say I'm a little more evolved than the average 32-year old woman, only because there was a time in my life when I was in a very, very bad place with my body image. I kicked and screamed through some very productive therapy...and I've made a commitment to show my daughter a positive attitude toward my own body. I don't want her to ever be in the place I have been in, that place of such severe hatred and loathing and total disconnect from this body that houses my soul.
I should mention that it's entirely possible that I am ignorant and I really have a hideously proportioned body...but I just don't feel that way these days. I feel like I've done something miraculous, twice, in growing, birthing, and feeding two children with my body. I weigh less now than I have in a long time. Other than the occasional indulgence of homemade baked goods or "I ate too much" social gathering, my diet is quite healthy, and I enjoy regular moderate exercise. I fit pretty comfortably into a size 10. No one's ever yelled "tidal wave!" when I've jumped into a swimming pool, nor have I been on the receiving end of any harpoons. Not ever.
Anyway, it's pretty universal that bathing suit shopping, for women, is at best a chore and at worst, torture. I've taken it to a whole new level, though -- I flat out refuse to go to a store and try anything on. I pore over catalogs and internet sites, desperately seeking something that will cover what the world was not meant to see and allow me to enjoy myself at the beach. Because I really, really love the beach.
So, I've just spent over two hours (which could have been better spent elsewise) in this quest. It's not as if I have nothing to wear to the beach this summer, it's just that I really feel like it's time for something new. The last suits I bought were during my pregnancies. Lands' End makes really great mix and match tops and bottoms, so I could adequately cover up my size 16 breasts and pregnant belly without worrying that my size 10 rear end would drown in fabric too big for it. I have a terrific red faille tankini and a blue patterned one, both of which fit when I'm great with child or in my current non-pregnant-and-trying-to-be-fit stage. I also have an awesome black tank suit, made from some "miracle" fabric that promises to take 10 pounds off. The 10 pounds don't exactly go anywhere, but they are very well-contained in this suit.
Except for my breasts. These bad boys refuse to be contained by the suit that does right by the rest of my body. Well, some women might be comfortable covering their nipples and letting 68% of each breast swell out the top of the suit...but I'm not one of those women. I'm going to be chasing my toddler daughter into the surf. I'm going to be on all fours, crawling in the sand with my baby son. I can't risk a black eye from an errant bounce, or a "falling out" because I push gravity too far -- I need total containment.
Enter the D-cup suit, or, in some styles from Eddie Bauer, the DD-cup suit. I've never actually tried one of these, but it would make logical sense that one might do the job, satisfying my desire for a suit that fits my body. The investment is pretty steep, though. There are no bargains in the D-cup world, not for bras or swimsuits or anything else. And, there's the big question -- which size should I get? If the top is made for size DD breasts, does that mean I can get a size 10? The size charts don't account for the extra boob-room. And by the way, accodring to those charts, my bust wears a size 16, my waist is a 10, and I'm an 8 in the hips. Hello, my name is Diana, and I suffer from multiple body part disorder.
Unfortunately, I'm not sure it even matters. The one suit I think I could wear and love, with a fabulously high neckline and a great print, is on backorder, not available until 6 weeks after my beach trip.
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
Now, some of that otherhood I promised...
I recently participated with a trio in a masterclass with Kalmen Opperman, a mogul in the clarinet world (he was Richard Stoltzman's teacher). It was really scary. He's 85 and about my height (5 foot-nuthin'). He's not a very constructive or encouraging man. He kept asking me "what the hell are you doing? " and was forever saying things like "did you think that was a crescendo? Didn't I tell you to make a crescendo? What, do you think you're better than I am? What the hell is wrong with you?"
It was really quite shocking to me because of how antithetical his approach was to how we talk to Anna. He also told me that I was incredibly talented and someday I'd graduate to a "proper" teacher (this was after asking me who I had studied with and telling me my mentors were all trash).
See, this man approaches everyone who touches a clarinet like the clarinet is the center of life. He believes that if it is not the center of everything, you have no right to call yourself a musician -- that music is too important and too special to be "professed" by anyone but the very, very elite. I do not agree. I have never fancied myself world class nor do I aspire to anything greater than what I've already achieved. He kept talking about what was going to happen after retirement and in my head, I was laughing because when I retire from the band (assuming I make it that far), I want to take the civil service exam and deliver the mail for a living...I sure as heck don't want to live hand to mouth trying to find work as a clarinet player.
I was remarkably unruffled by the whole experience, though. The man focused entirely on me the whole morning -- over two hours. My breasts were aching and full and I had zero concentration left and he wanted to know why I wasn't asking for more when I finally got up to go home to my baby. Everyone who had witnessed all or part of the morning was concerned -- my phone rang off the hook! I was really very peaceful and had it all in perspective. After just taking everything he threw at me all morning, I finally threw something back -- "I have a 4-month old baby at home who depends on me for food."
My contribution to this world isn't going to be that I was a musician, it's going to be that I was a mother. That, my friends, was a remarkable insight for me, who once told a doctor, "If you can't fix my hands and I can't play the clarinet anymore, just kill me, because there will be nothing left for me, not a single reason to live."
It was really quite shocking to me because of how antithetical his approach was to how we talk to Anna. He also told me that I was incredibly talented and someday I'd graduate to a "proper" teacher (this was after asking me who I had studied with and telling me my mentors were all trash).
See, this man approaches everyone who touches a clarinet like the clarinet is the center of life. He believes that if it is not the center of everything, you have no right to call yourself a musician -- that music is too important and too special to be "professed" by anyone but the very, very elite. I do not agree. I have never fancied myself world class nor do I aspire to anything greater than what I've already achieved. He kept talking about what was going to happen after retirement and in my head, I was laughing because when I retire from the band (assuming I make it that far), I want to take the civil service exam and deliver the mail for a living...I sure as heck don't want to live hand to mouth trying to find work as a clarinet player.
I was remarkably unruffled by the whole experience, though. The man focused entirely on me the whole morning -- over two hours. My breasts were aching and full and I had zero concentration left and he wanted to know why I wasn't asking for more when I finally got up to go home to my baby. Everyone who had witnessed all or part of the morning was concerned -- my phone rang off the hook! I was really very peaceful and had it all in perspective. After just taking everything he threw at me all morning, I finally threw something back -- "I have a 4-month old baby at home who depends on me for food."
My contribution to this world isn't going to be that I was a musician, it's going to be that I was a mother. That, my friends, was a remarkable insight for me, who once told a doctor, "If you can't fix my hands and I can't play the clarinet anymore, just kill me, because there will be nothing left for me, not a single reason to live."
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
Breastfeeding in the U.S. -- view from my soapbox, part II
Back to this "freedom of choice" issue...watch some TV. Count the formula ads. Now, count the ads that promote breastfeeding. Wait! There are none -- those might SCARE someone or OFFEND someone! OK, turn off the TV and open a magazine. Count the forumla ads. Count the ads/articles that promote breastfeeding. I'm talking "mainstream" here, folks, not Compleat Mother or Mothering. How many mailings did YOU get during your pregnancy encouraging you to breastfeed? How many dollars-off coupons did you get for Mother's Milk Tea?
I don't think TRUE freedom of choice exists in this country over this issue. Women who choose to breastfeed have to swim against the stream. Heaven forbid they have problems and can't locate support. Women who choose to formula feed have all the support in the world.
By the way, next time you're in a hospital maternity ward, look at the small print on the "routine" items. The paper tape measure used to size up my newborn -- formula company. The little tag on her basinette that said "I'm a girl..." -- formula company. The growth charts her height, weight, and head circumference were plotted on -- yep! Formula company.
Baby dolls come with bottles unless you buy them from a "crunchy" website. Pacifiers are attached to baby shower gifts with ribbons as decorations. Find me a baby-themed item -- any item will do, blanket, cross-stitch sampler, baby book -- that represents a breastfed baby, a mother breastfeeding her child, etc. While we all agree that breast is better, why is bottle-feeding so pervasive and breastfeeding so "counter-culture?"
My point is this: some mothers who have chosen formula did so knowing all the facts. Good for them. They knew what they needed to do to be the best mother they knew how, quit breastfeeding or never start, whatever the situation was. However, I would contend that MOST women in this country who chose formula did so WITHOUT all of the facts. They weaned or didn't breastfeed because it was "easier" or "normal" to formula feed, because they didn't know anyone who had breastfed, because no one told them that formula ISN'T 100% the same as breastmilk, because every cultural representation of babies bears a bottle.
THAT is why I feel sad and frustrated. Not because someone made a decision I wouldn't make.
How to increase breastfeeding duration in the U.S.:
--longer paid maternity leave for breastfeeding moms
--more education of health care professionals
--get the AAP the hell out of bed with the pharmaceuticals so pediatricians can give unbiased information based on the health of children, not $$$
--increase breastfeeding support! Support La Leche League!
--Breastfeeding mothers, nurse in public. Talk about breastfeeding. Don't be apologetic about it! The more women I meet who do it/have done it, the more empowered I feel.
--Workplaces HAVE to receive training on the breastfeeding mother who works outside the home. Too many mothers feel like they are "getting away" with something because they pump at work or take advantage of flex-time...because their employers have a negative attitude toward breastfeeding.
I am in the (very slow) process of writing and proposing an Army Regulation governing the treatment of breastfeeding mothers in the Army. I have decided to take this on because, when my daughter was 8 months old, my job (band member -- not infantry!) required I spend 6+ hours at a football stadium, away from my baby.
I am a Staff Sergeant, which, translated, means I'm a big nobody with some seniority. The Chief of Primary Care at our health care facility, who was in charge of medical operations for the stadium on these days I had to work there, was a Colonel, which, translated, means he was a VERY HIGH RANKING, educated individual who had a lot of power in the Army, as well as a lot of experience.
I contacted him to request a clean, private place to use my breast pump. He told me I was lucky to breastfeed as long as I did, too bad the responsibility to keep it up rested on me, the individual, not the institution.
This, from a respected medical professional! I told him (bear in mind the difference in rank!) I was sorry he felt that he could not design a workplace that was conducive to my continued breastfeeding, especially considering that he, as a medical doctor, should be well aware that current recommendations suggest a child not be weaned, if possible until after the first birthday.
Knowledge is power.
There was a freshly-painted cubicle with an electrical outlet and a locking door at the football stadium that weekend.
My little corner of the world was a little more baby-friendly...what are you doing to make yours better?
I don't think TRUE freedom of choice exists in this country over this issue. Women who choose to breastfeed have to swim against the stream. Heaven forbid they have problems and can't locate support. Women who choose to formula feed have all the support in the world.
By the way, next time you're in a hospital maternity ward, look at the small print on the "routine" items. The paper tape measure used to size up my newborn -- formula company. The little tag on her basinette that said "I'm a girl..." -- formula company. The growth charts her height, weight, and head circumference were plotted on -- yep! Formula company.
Baby dolls come with bottles unless you buy them from a "crunchy" website. Pacifiers are attached to baby shower gifts with ribbons as decorations. Find me a baby-themed item -- any item will do, blanket, cross-stitch sampler, baby book -- that represents a breastfed baby, a mother breastfeeding her child, etc. While we all agree that breast is better, why is bottle-feeding so pervasive and breastfeeding so "counter-culture?"
My point is this: some mothers who have chosen formula did so knowing all the facts. Good for them. They knew what they needed to do to be the best mother they knew how, quit breastfeeding or never start, whatever the situation was. However, I would contend that MOST women in this country who chose formula did so WITHOUT all of the facts. They weaned or didn't breastfeed because it was "easier" or "normal" to formula feed, because they didn't know anyone who had breastfed, because no one told them that formula ISN'T 100% the same as breastmilk, because every cultural representation of babies bears a bottle.
THAT is why I feel sad and frustrated. Not because someone made a decision I wouldn't make.
How to increase breastfeeding duration in the U.S.:
--longer paid maternity leave for breastfeeding moms
--more education of health care professionals
--get the AAP the hell out of bed with the pharmaceuticals so pediatricians can give unbiased information based on the health of children, not $$$
--increase breastfeeding support! Support La Leche League!
--Breastfeeding mothers, nurse in public. Talk about breastfeeding. Don't be apologetic about it! The more women I meet who do it/have done it, the more empowered I feel.
--Workplaces HAVE to receive training on the breastfeeding mother who works outside the home. Too many mothers feel like they are "getting away" with something because they pump at work or take advantage of flex-time...because their employers have a negative attitude toward breastfeeding.
I am in the (very slow) process of writing and proposing an Army Regulation governing the treatment of breastfeeding mothers in the Army. I have decided to take this on because, when my daughter was 8 months old, my job (band member -- not infantry!) required I spend 6+ hours at a football stadium, away from my baby.
I am a Staff Sergeant, which, translated, means I'm a big nobody with some seniority. The Chief of Primary Care at our health care facility, who was in charge of medical operations for the stadium on these days I had to work there, was a Colonel, which, translated, means he was a VERY HIGH RANKING, educated individual who had a lot of power in the Army, as well as a lot of experience.
I contacted him to request a clean, private place to use my breast pump. He told me I was lucky to breastfeed as long as I did, too bad the responsibility to keep it up rested on me, the individual, not the institution.
This, from a respected medical professional! I told him (bear in mind the difference in rank!) I was sorry he felt that he could not design a workplace that was conducive to my continued breastfeeding, especially considering that he, as a medical doctor, should be well aware that current recommendations suggest a child not be weaned, if possible until after the first birthday.
Knowledge is power.
There was a freshly-painted cubicle with an electrical outlet and a locking door at the football stadium that weekend.
My little corner of the world was a little more baby-friendly...what are you doing to make yours better?
Breastfeeding in the U.S. -- a soapbox rant
Before I climb aboard my soapbox, let me make one thing crystal clear: my beef is with the formula companies, not the women who use formula. Are there any questions so far?
Now, my treatise. In this country, breastfeeding rates are alarmingly low, both at birth and as time goes on. In countries where formula is used FOR ITS INTENDED PURPOSE, for babies that could not, for whatever reason, have breastmilk, breastfeeding is the NORM.
Why is it not here in the U.S.? Because Americans are driven by the almighty dollar. And no one makes a stinking dime if I breastfeed my children.
Breasts are sexualized here to such a point that many women are actually afraid to use their breasts to feed a child. I've had people ask me if I'm afraid I'll make my 2 and a half year old daughter a lesbian because she still nurses. (If she's a lesbian to begin with, that's fine with me, but to imply that extended nursing MADE her that way?)
I'm all for freedom of choice. I'll bitch and moan here on this blog and with my like-minded friends about how sad and frustrated I am that breastfeeding is still considered a "fringe behavior," but I'll never tell a mother she made a bad choice. I have no right to do that -- I don't walk in her shoes. And, along those lines, I'd certainly never accuse someone of being a "bad mother" for not breastfeeding any sooner than I'd applaud someone for being a "good mother" simply because she breastfeeds!
My friend at work (yes, I did say FRIEND, in fact, one of the most loyal buds I've ever known) was so anxiety-ridden about going back to work and pumping, she had panic attacks. Is she a bad mother for weaning at 6 weeks to go back to work? No way. She does, however, tell me that if I had done it first and she had seen how I manage our job and breastfeeding a baby (well, two babies now), she might have stuck it out a little bit longer.
My own mother never gave me so much as a drop of colostrum, yet I strive, daily, to be the kind of mother she is. Breastfeeding alone does not make a good mother. It is but one piece of a very large puzzle.
Now, my treatise. In this country, breastfeeding rates are alarmingly low, both at birth and as time goes on. In countries where formula is used FOR ITS INTENDED PURPOSE, for babies that could not, for whatever reason, have breastmilk, breastfeeding is the NORM.
Why is it not here in the U.S.? Because Americans are driven by the almighty dollar. And no one makes a stinking dime if I breastfeed my children.
Breasts are sexualized here to such a point that many women are actually afraid to use their breasts to feed a child. I've had people ask me if I'm afraid I'll make my 2 and a half year old daughter a lesbian because she still nurses. (If she's a lesbian to begin with, that's fine with me, but to imply that extended nursing MADE her that way?)
I'm all for freedom of choice. I'll bitch and moan here on this blog and with my like-minded friends about how sad and frustrated I am that breastfeeding is still considered a "fringe behavior," but I'll never tell a mother she made a bad choice. I have no right to do that -- I don't walk in her shoes. And, along those lines, I'd certainly never accuse someone of being a "bad mother" for not breastfeeding any sooner than I'd applaud someone for being a "good mother" simply because she breastfeeds!
My friend at work (yes, I did say FRIEND, in fact, one of the most loyal buds I've ever known) was so anxiety-ridden about going back to work and pumping, she had panic attacks. Is she a bad mother for weaning at 6 weeks to go back to work? No way. She does, however, tell me that if I had done it first and she had seen how I manage our job and breastfeeding a baby (well, two babies now), she might have stuck it out a little bit longer.
My own mother never gave me so much as a drop of colostrum, yet I strive, daily, to be the kind of mother she is. Breastfeeding alone does not make a good mother. It is but one piece of a very large puzzle.
Preparation
I have to admit, I can't really wrap my head around all the time, energy, and cash parents-to-be spend "preparing" for their babies' arrival. I'm talking about baby showers, baby registries, and nursery decorations. Sure, people might think it's kind of fun to adorn a former storage room with frills and lace or appliques of sports equpiment...but, will the baby care?
This is not going to turn into a soapbox rant about where babies want to sleep -- I'll save that for another day when I'm not so ready for bed myself...but while I'm on this soapbox, I think I will rant about baby showers. I don't like them. I feel like a freak at them. People who are normally easy to get along with suddenly morph into materialistic "thing getters" who seem to view the soon-to-arrive new life as either a doll to dress up or a noisemaker to quiet. Loud plastic gadgets designed to amuse babies are passed around. Guests who already have children start with the horror stories, "Oh, MY son wouldn't sleep anywhere but in the swing..." or "Make sure you bring a pacifier to the hospital -- you don't want your baby getting used to the ugly ones they give you for free there!"
The horror stories don't stop there. Every woman who has ever given birth considers it her duty to tell the expectant mother about every ounce of pain she felt during the bloodbath that was the birth of her child. Dare I speak up and share the peaceful, gentle, drug-free hospital birth I had with my daughter, or, GADS! Do I let on that I gave birth to my son AT HOME, or will that clue everyone in to the fact that I really am, in fact, a total freak?
Invariably, the conversation goes to breastfeeding, circumcision, and all the other things that seemingly everyone does one way, and I do another.
I think, if people spent even a fraction of the time and energy on preparing themselves for BIRTH as they spend on choosing and gathering all the STUFF, birth outcomes in this country would be far better. Fewer c-sections, fewer drugs, fewer instrument interventions, happier mammas, healthier babies.
Amongst the boxes of disposable diapers and flame-retardant pajamas, it becomes very clear to me that no one at the baby shower wants to hear my opinion or my experience. I've decided it would be best if I just don't go to baby showers anymore.
This is not going to turn into a soapbox rant about where babies want to sleep -- I'll save that for another day when I'm not so ready for bed myself...but while I'm on this soapbox, I think I will rant about baby showers. I don't like them. I feel like a freak at them. People who are normally easy to get along with suddenly morph into materialistic "thing getters" who seem to view the soon-to-arrive new life as either a doll to dress up or a noisemaker to quiet. Loud plastic gadgets designed to amuse babies are passed around. Guests who already have children start with the horror stories, "Oh, MY son wouldn't sleep anywhere but in the swing..." or "Make sure you bring a pacifier to the hospital -- you don't want your baby getting used to the ugly ones they give you for free there!"
The horror stories don't stop there. Every woman who has ever given birth considers it her duty to tell the expectant mother about every ounce of pain she felt during the bloodbath that was the birth of her child. Dare I speak up and share the peaceful, gentle, drug-free hospital birth I had with my daughter, or, GADS! Do I let on that I gave birth to my son AT HOME, or will that clue everyone in to the fact that I really am, in fact, a total freak?
Invariably, the conversation goes to breastfeeding, circumcision, and all the other things that seemingly everyone does one way, and I do another.
I think, if people spent even a fraction of the time and energy on preparing themselves for BIRTH as they spend on choosing and gathering all the STUFF, birth outcomes in this country would be far better. Fewer c-sections, fewer drugs, fewer instrument interventions, happier mammas, healthier babies.
Amongst the boxes of disposable diapers and flame-retardant pajamas, it becomes very clear to me that no one at the baby shower wants to hear my opinion or my experience. I've decided it would be best if I just don't go to baby showers anymore.
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