Detroit Strike

If you've been following the news lately, you've heard about the UAW strikes at GM and Chrysler. Ford talks are looming on the horizon. If you happen to live in the Detroit environs, you get "Breaking News" flashes at all sorts of times to tell you that the talks have recessed because someone needed to sleep, eat, or shit.

We've had our own striking action chez Cricket. And the management (I think that's me) has not gotten very far with the babe. In fact, I think the strike may have ended and we're at permanent shut down status.

Nursing. I fear it may be over.

Today a friend from my La Leche group sent out the best picture ever of herself nursing her toddler, and I cried. How I wanted to be that mommy. I just knew that I was going to nurse Cricket until he was at least a year, and then I smugly added, "I'll just let him determine when we'll stop nursing." In my head, I was thinking that I might have to seriously address the issue sometime in the spring, when I imagine heading back to the RE for baby two attempts.

We were going strong with the nursing too. Cricket is an exuberant feeder, opening his little baby bird mouth really wide and almost making a chomp noise as he came in for the milk. And even though I'm fairly crazed with school (can you tell, no posts from me?) we were still nursing right on schedule. I'm very lucky that his daycare program is located in the same building as my classes. In fact, his room is directly underneath one of my classrooms. So at lunch I'd go downstairs and nurse the baby. Nothing was changed other than location, and that was only once a day.

We got through the initial biting stuff too. When cutting his first teeth (Shit! Teeth! Growing up!), we nipped it in the bud and it seemed like it wouldn't be a problem. Then the fifth tooth started niggling toward the gum border, and man, he chomped down on me. I promptly removed him, told him no bite, and then he refused to nurse on that side again. I changed him to the other side, he nursed, fell asleep, and that was that.

Until I picked him up from school, whereupon he pushed my breasts away-- there was no uncertainty-- he just didn't want them near him at all. He screamed. And this happened no matter what. Over the past few weeks we've tried the bath, playing with the shirt off so he could come back to the breast on his own terms, we've tried early morning sleepy, late evening sleepy, middle of the night sleepy, and sleep itself. We've tried to not push the breast and push the breast. And you know what? He's just not buying it. No, I haven't changed soaps, detergents, deodorants, or anything else.

He reaches for the bottle. God.

(Not that the bottle is inherently bad, I just never saw it coming. It doesn't even bother me as much to see him reach for his teachers at school as it bothers me the bottle reaching. Who knew that this strike would feel so much like a rejection of me? I can't explain why it's made me feel so personally like a bad mother. Like I must have done something to make him stop. Sigh. Here I am again with the vast conspiracy of motherhood guilt.)

Consequently, as with all strikes, auto and otherwise, production is slowed. It's slowed so much that my previously unprecedented production was supplemented for the first time this morning. With the F-word. More distressing news from the picket lines? He didn't even blink when the bottles switched from breast milk to formula. Oh, child. How I am betrayed.

I'm still pumping, but getting only around 6 oz a day. I'm trying to tell myself it's worth it to keep pumping until he's a year, but it's getting rough. He doesn't seem to care whether he's getting breast milk or formula; he's a gordito, so I'm not worried about weight gain; he really enjoys non-breast milk food; we both seem to still be very bonded despite the strike.

So what do I do? Consider this an extended strike and keep trying to get him back on the breast? Figure this stint has run it's plan and shut the factory down? Or keep trying to produce even the limited production we have now?

Consider this the management looking for new negotiators and let me know what you think. Of course that's hoping that there is anyone still reading this poor neglected (but loved!) blog.

Silent Fireworks

The backyard in dusk, and my chair in the window. The fan blowing across the room. Clair de Lune, just as I imagined it always would be. His legs curled around my body, eyes just closed, breastfeeding to sleep. And fireflies, everywhere, lighting up the backyard with brilliant moments of peace.

([No] Blues) Traveller

I thought I should post a little update about the Cricket in flight since I got such great advice from everyone. Cricket is a flying champ!

First of all, the plane we went on was smaller than we are usually on, only 13 rows of two seats. Pretty small. When we got to the gate, carrying the car seat in hopes of a free seat, we were advised by the surly agent that the flight was fully booked. "No chance of the bulkhead then?" I asked.

"I told you: We're fully booked."

Northwest really wins on customer service sometimes, eh? We got on the plane while those around us eyed with a mixture of disdain and suspicion. Cricket was getting a little kvetchy since it was time to nap. The man sitting across from us was the ray of light though, telling me how Cricket would be okay as long as I nursed him, and that this was easiest time to fly with kids, and all about this two kids and one on the way. I really liked him. I wanted to take him home with us.

And then we pushed back from the gate and I started with the breast. I was a little worried I was premature since there was a line-up for take off, but it was perfect. He nursed himself to sleep, and sleep he did, all the way to the gate in Charleston. At that point, all those around us who cast the evil on when we embarked, remarked upon how cute and good he was as they disembarked. Trial by fire, what?

I tried to make nice with the air hostess the whole trip, the same pleasant lady who told me the Flight. Was. Fully. Booked. At one point, I asked if she pronounced her name "Sha-von"; she said yes and then I chirped, "Oh! That's a real Irish name!" She glared at me and said, "Yes, I know. But I don't spell it like they do." Listen, lady, I'm the they you poo-poo. I decided she was hopeless. All that worrying about Cricket and his possible unpleasantness, and really my biggest hassle was obnoxious flight personnel.

With our dreamy flight into Charleston, I wasn't so worried about the return flight to Detroit. Incidentally, NW redeemed themselves here by getting us onto the earlier flight out, giving us the bulkhead, and not charging us at all to change the flights. Cricket, it's true, really did look bad at this point, so I think we got the "pity fare." Nice to know it still exists. Actually everyone at NW on our return was great. When I called the airline to see if there were seats available, the woman I talked told me how much it would be to change through her on the phone ($238), but then told me to just go the airport since there were seven seats left and we'd have no problem getting on. Once at the airport, the rep told us it would cost $25 to verify our flight there, or we could go standby for free. She said we should choose standby since she was sure we'd get on. After I agreed to that, she booked me anyway. I really felt good about NW for the first time in years.

Once on the plane, he wailed. Screamed. I knew all I had to do was offer up the breast and with the first suck, he'd pipe down, but I was saving the boobs as my secret weapon for take-off. It's a good thing I held out a little because it took some time to push back. Once we started moving, he fed and again there were no problems. What a champ. Once off the plane, a young man told me how good Cricket was. "For a minute there I thought we were in for a nightmare," he said. Yup. Me too. Of course, don't forget how Cricket was masquerading as lobster at this point, deep in the throes of his sulfa-allergy outbreak.

Things were so good with him on the plane, I'd even go so far as to say, it helped my own phobias too. Here's a picture of our little traveller. How could he not charm the pants off anyone?

I also think this picture really highlights how small those damn seats are. Cricket is a mere 16 pounds here; he's got some room in the seat, but for how much longer?

Intro to Breastfeeding: I'm Getting a C

... and we all know how I like to get all As. I don't like my C.

Tomorrow evening we go to our first La Leche meeting. It can't come too soon.

This afternoon I threw the Maya wrap all around the house, kicked the Dr. Sears book, and then promptly broke down and cried. (I can't get the Maya wrap to "work" right.)

Yes, having a baby will cause you to regress to age two. I better grow up quickly, because Cricket is ready to over take me in maturity terms.

It's like this: When we came home from the hospital, the "orders" were to breastfeed up to three times a day. That meant bottles all other times. We opted to try breastfeeding during the day, leaving bottles for night when Partner could get up and do some of the shifts. Not like this really gave me much rest, since I had to get up and pump and do all the rigamarole involved with pumping, but still... And not that bottles at night were easy. There was all the warming up of the bottle involved, transferring to a "better" bottle, since the hospital nipples-- well, what was the point? The milk came pouring out of them. There was no way we were ever going to get Cricket on the boob if he didn't have to start sucking, even a little. And then he'd eat and eat and eat and we'd have to keep warming up more bottles since the tiny bottles I pumped into only held 60 ml. And of course the guilt we'd both feel if we warmed up more milk than he'd eat. There was all the pumping time down the tubes.

After Cricket's one week check up determined he was gaining weight, I decided I was going all boob, all the time. I dreaded being totally responsible, but we had to do it.

And guess what? It worked. He totally complied with the new regimen.

He's a breast man now, my friends.

But man, he's a breast man now, my friends... *Sigh*

First of all, since he was small to start and one of my breasts weighs more than him, he opted to feed with the clutch hold. And I naively thought that we'd only be doing that for a short while. After all, the football hold doesn't exactly lend itself to public feeding, mainly because I need a pillow to prop him up. I tried doing a cross cradle yesterday. Yeah. Not really. So basically at this point, I feel that I will never ever be able to feed him anywhere else by in the two "nursing"chairs in the house: one upstairs, and one downstairs.

The second issue we're having is that he's slow. I read all these books (I should stop) and they talk about a baby being on each breast for ten minutes. Is that for real? Ten minutes? That's a dream. In "fast" feedings, Cricket is on each breast for at least twenty, but usually a "fast" feeding takes at least an hour. And that's a rare thing, mostly he's in for the long haul.

For example, last night he woke at 3:44. Partner changed him and handed him to me soon after that. From 4:00 to 5:00 am, Cricket ate and I watched Cosby. At 5:00 am, I started watching the local news. Around 5:45 he decided he was done and would sleep. That's a long feeding. One hour. Forty-five minutes. He does this also in the early evening.

I am feeling particularly tethered. I am watching scads of bad tv (think MTV programs like Maui Fever, The Hills and Juvies among my "favorites" and then there's always the "Real" Housewives.). It's hard to read and hold his head and my breast. My ass is going flat, and my lower back, uhg.

And this only part of my issue: We have a champion spitter-upper. Out the nose, out the mouth. I've cut out milk and that seems to have eliminated the "frothy" spit up, but we still have loads. He squirms and grunts and I am racked with guilt-- what did I eat to cause him pain? He pulls at the nipple. Once I thought I had lost it and Cricket had his first solid.

I also am not totally sure we're always latched correctly.

We're at the six week marker here, exactly when it was supposed to get easier, and for some reason it only seems to be getting harder.

So the La Leche meeting is just in time. I'm going to get a lactation consultant in too. He does all the requisite eliminations, so I know he's getting food, and on Friday at the pediatrician (which we keep calling the vet; what's that about?) he weighed 8 lbs 4.5 oz. So he's gaining weight... Just tell me he's going to get big enough soon so we can breastfeed in public. And please tell me he will get more effective and won't feed for two hours at a time (which we did this afternoon while watching Love Story).

I love breastfeeding; I want to do this for at least a year. I love looking down at his little head, and I feel a certain amount of pride at his pudgy fingers. It's not an option to go back to that pumping bottle madness. Hopefully we get some answers tomorrow.

I can't stand how shoddily this post was written, and how disjointed. But I'm leaning back in the office chair with Cricket sleeping on me, so I guess this is where blogging is for now...