Swedish living

In three to five years we are moving to the Swedish countryside.

We plan to buy Husband’s parents’ house, and they’ll get an apartment in the city. When I say “three to five years” please note that I have been saying that for at least four years already. So who knows if/when we’re moving there. We have a bunch of criteria for moving–save up a certain amount of money, I finish grad school, my husband finishes school, somebody has a job there. There’s sometimes also something about having another baby, and when/where to do that, but it’s all quite nebulous.

I am not a particular fan of Sweden. It’s dark there a lot, and I don’t really speak the language, plus it’s far away from my friends and family, and the people are often…bland, and distant. The dairy products are good, though, and I adore the summers. When we got married I agreed to move there to raise our children, on the theory that the countryside and schools are so nice there, and my husband has a larger network of family, and he wants be near them (he’s been in the U.S. for more than twelve years now). And back then I was a lot more interested in Adventure and Travel and Learning about Different Cultures.

I’m not so enthusiastic anymore. The current bargain we have now made is that I get to have a horse and/or goat if we go. (We also intend to have ducks.) Sometimes it sounds idyllic. The house is gorgeous and sunny (at least when there’s sun), in the woods in a tiny village not far from a decent-sized town. Although some serious remodeling needs to be done for my American standards (for one thing, the only shower is in the basement, next to the sauna), I can see enjoying living in the house. And maybe teaching English or Spanish in the high school. Watching Baby hop in the snow. And my in-laws are great people.

Yet when we argue, to be mean I usually say something about how I don’t really want to go to Sweden. I’m pretty sure my husband’s big fear in life is that I’ll refuse to go and keep the baby. I can’t see doing that necessarily, but I have told my husband that if we move there, and I am totally miserable, I have to come back. We have to come back. We originally made our life in America. I can drive here (the test in Sweden is insanely difficult and in Swedish and I would probably never be able to get around independently), I know how to access services here, I can work the system, talk to Baby’s teachers, be near my own personal connections here. And I love and depend on my friends. Moving internationally–I am just not sure I am really up for the challenge or the necessary multicultural open-mindedness. I like my American lifestyle. Swedish life is awfully dictated for my taste. I like knowing where to find what I want in the store. I’ve spent lots of time abroad and now I am ready to stay in my familiar environment.

It doesn’t help that my husband basically refuses to speak Swedish with me and Baby. I speak more Swedish (poorly, but still) to her than he does, and read her children’s books. I really don’t know that much (though I can understand a fair amount). Husband has this weird mental block about Swedish. Every so often I declare it a day of Swedish but it peters out after a few minutes. Husband is always saying he doesn’t remember words and that’s why he doesn’t like to speak it. But he does fine with his family. Basically I think the problem is that he gets annoyed having to repeat slowly words and phrases to me so that I’ll learn them. If we would just do that regularly, I would pick it up quickly enough–I’m good with languages. But why he doesn’t talk to the baby in Swedish is beyond me and very frustrating.

My learning Swedish isn’t a huge issue in my mind. If we move there, I’ll pick it up okay, eventually (though I think Baby deserves a mama who is ready to talk to her teachers as needed right from the get-go–so sometimes I tell my husband that I won’t go to Sweden until I speak Swedish, and that he needs to get a move on with speaking it with me. And then he just mumbles something and we drop the subject). What I want is for Baby to learn it as she grows, before we go. It would be so beneficial to her, and mainly, when we move there, already knowing Swedish would make the transition easier for her. I don’t want her to start school in Sweden (as is the vague plan) and have to learn Swedish in addition to everything else new.

So I don’t know about this whole moving-to-Sweden thing. We kind of avoid the topic for the most part. It is the major problem in our relationship, the only one that could disrupt us, this issue of moving to Sweden/speaking Swedish. I do think it would be a lovely place for Baby to grow up (provided I am not absolutely miserable, since my well-being matters for her as well). Of course, here is a very nice place as well, surrounded by friends and family. Still, I guess we will give it a go. I do want a horse. And it would be nice for Baby to know her whole family. But I’m not going to go out of my way to get us in shape to move to Sweden. My husband will have to work all that out. I think part of why he wants to go there is pure fantasy about life there. Originally, he left for a reason–he hated it, felt trapped (plus his first wife was American). Now he seems to think, maybe based on the fact that every time he’s been there in the last decade has been while on vacation, that Swedish life is all grilling sausage and hiking in the woods and drinking beer with his father, no traffic, no job hassles, no house upkeep, no reality. But life goes on no matter where you are.

+++

My mother-in-law has started her electroshock therapy. She’s doing a little better, and able to spend some time on the weekends at home now. I talked to her today and she seemed okay. Hopefully by July when we are in Sweden for my brother-in-law’s wedding she will be home and well.

The ears have it

As a child, my mother had horrible ear infections. She was actually deaf for a time as a result. They were so bad she said the pain was far worse than childbirth–which she accomplished entirely unmedicated.

I’ve always tended to ear infections myself, and get them at the worst times. Right before Thanksgiving two years ago, when I was supposed to host the holiday for my whole family, I somehow got a double ear infection that sent me to the hospital–twice. The first bout of antibiotics didn’t help me, and while we waited for them to work, the infection spread to my jaw. It was so painful and I was utterly incapacitated, couldn’t eat, was out of work for a week, totally missed the holiday. Finally at the second hospital trip I got a big shot in the behind of a strong antibiotic, a new prescription, painkillers, and the odd experience of having my ears cleaned out with water. Then the painkillers made me throw up a bunch. Good times.

Five days after Baby’s birth I had another horrible ear ache. My c-section incision no longer hurt, but I was gobbling the painkillers for my ear instead. On top of all the other post-partum craziness, I had to go to the GP to get help for my poor, tender ear. The LC said that ear infection probably had something to do with my early milk supply issues, because of the pain.

And of course I have an ear infection right now.

I worry Baby will inherit this predilection for ear problems. So far she seems okay, though I’m not sure how I would really know if she had one. I wish we could choose what our babies would and wouldn’t inherit from us.

Point A to Point B

Thanks to all of you for your kind support. It makes such a difference.

I’m still a bit tortured, but trying to come to terms with things and making sure to enjoy the hell out of my baby. The whole cold turkey effort worked a bit too well and despite some half-hearted efforts to get the milk back, I am now making less than half of what is needed for just one feeding. 2 oz/day at 2 pumps. Even though the amount is negligible, I can’t give it up. Yet. Pumping is kind of a dumb thing to have incorporated into my mothering identity, but that’s what I seem to have done.

The script in my mind likes to talk about how I screwed up my milk supply and if I had just pushed through my recent visceral negative reaction to pumping, I could have kept going for longer, and how I’m not doing the best I can for my baby, how she deserves better, and what an ignoble ending my pumping has come to, how I expected better from myself than this.

Don’t worry, I have an appointment with the therapist next week.

There have been several sobbing phone calls to both my parents about my weaning angst, neither of whom understands. My father kept asking me, “How hard is it not to put the baby to your nipple?” Jesus, how many times have I explained to him that I’m pumping? And plus, can you stop talking about my nipples? That’s all I ask. My mom said I sound like I did immediately post-partum, when I kept going on about how I didn’t really give birth, given the c-section, and reminded me that I don’t care about that anymore, so soon I won’t care about this. She has a point. And I hope she’s right. I really do feel post-partumy, at any rate. The hormones I guess.

Pumping at this point is symbolic and ritualistic. My attachment to my pump is oddly strong. Maybe I bonded with it, all that oxytocin? Even though I’m not using it much, I like having it around. Without it, my baby would never have gotten my milk. I guess we’re buddies.

Oh, and my post-pregnancy-(almost)-post-breastfeeding rack looks quite defeated. It deserves and requires expensive, properly-fitted buttressing. Baby and I will be visiting my mother next weekend while we’re getting desperately-needed new carpeting (leaving the house because I don’t want Baby around the fumes, plus we have to dismantle the crib), so I guess I’ll go bra shopping then. Ooo, the suspense of what size I’ll wear…

+++

In brighter news, Baby is mobile! (Kinda.) I wouldn’t call what she is doing crawling, but she is getting around! She can go almost a meter (with proper incentive)! Baby sort of army crawls and rolls and scoots on her tummy. It is so fun! And so sad my husband isn’t here to see it. I’ve been thoroughly documenting it, though.

There was this whole moral dilemma about whether I should tell him about this new development while he was gone, or if doing so would just make him more upset about being away. In the end, I told him because I was so excited. Now I feel bad and wish I hadn’t. I am one indecisive lady these days!

Anyway, here is some cuteness.

During a (rare) bath:

The giggles:

Baby just discovered how to make a clucking sound and is doing it all the time. Also, she’s a No Nap Nancy and is getting up way early. Babies are always changing things up. And you know what’s a fun finger food for babies? Seaweed! Just make sure it was prepared without MSG.

Ugh

Don’t mind me, I’m just suffering from multiple personalities, one day trying to wean cold turkey, going from five pumps a day to one in one day, and the next day freaking out, trying to get the milk back. Right now I’m just making thin, watery milk–milk that doesn’t even look good enough to feed the baby. I feel like an addict, drawn back to pumping. But I’m scared of weaning too fast, easy as my body is making it, with the risk of serious depression and mastitis. But I also hate pumping now, have been hating it for a few weeks. I had this daring idea that I could return the pump Monday and not have to pay for another month’s rental, but now I see that saving $50 is not worth rushing things along. Blah blah blah. Misery. Obsession. Sorry. I will be just as excited to stop talking about pumping as you will be to stop hearing about it.

It doesn’t help that my husband is out of town for most of this week, and I miss him mournfully, and not just because that means I have to cook myself dinner, and I have a huge and totally boring yet overwhelming grad school paper to work on, and today I had to attend the wedding shower of my best high school friend who is marrying my high school boyfriend (they got together in college). It feels weird to me that I am still connected to him through her, and she always insists on bringing him over when she visits, and frankly I don’t want to see him, you know? I don’t get how he was a total ass when we were sixteen, and always moping around listening to the Pixies, and yet now he wears chinos and is a lawyer and is marrying the biggest goody two-shoes I ever knew. At least he wasn’t at the shower, but several other people from high school were, as were their mothers (and as was Baby, since my husband wasn’t in town to watch her). We all reverted back to how we were in high school, and I totally thought I left that behind a decade ago. At least Baby had fun playing with the wrapping paper.

So to summarize: fuck.

8 months old

Now you are 8 months old! This last month you experienced a lot of physical development: you got two teeth (on the bottom; they came in at about the same time, with only one day of misery), and you started pulling yourself to a stand! Your legs are very strong. You really want to get places, and will reach out and try to grab onto things to climb up, like mommy’s shirt or pants leg. Right now you’re obsessed with pulling up! You can do it on the bed frame in your nursery if your legs are in just the right position, and you are always turning to Mommy or Daddy so that we’ll put our hands out for you to grab and use for leverage.

So far you can only get around by rolling, which you mostly do in your crib, but you are definitely trying to figure out the mechanics of climbing over things and getting place. For now, you like to lunge in the general direction of whatever interests you, like the cats, and fall over onto your face! But you don’t mind. You just lie on your tummy and kick and look around and reach.

You don’t want to sit anymore, you want someone to put their fingers out for you to grab onto so you can hoist yourself to standing. Your legs are so strong you can stand up holding onto something for seven minutes—your Daddy timed you! He also helped you to walk, by holding your waist or hands. What a big girl you are getting to be! When you are happy and excited, you make a silly sound (huh, huh) and if you are sitting, you bounce up and down and rock back and forth and pat your hands on the ground! You’ve also figured out the secret of the walker, and you can go really fast; you like to chase the doggies around in it! You can even pop wheelies in that thing, and you wander all around the downstairs. We have a bouncing stationary baby entertainer that you just figured out how to jump in, and you find it so very thrilling to do so. You’re starting to learn how to get on all fours, so either crawling or walking, I bet you’ll be getting places soon! Too soon for Mommy, at least.

When you do sit and play, you have a basket of toys you find very entertaining; it has blocks, Mardi Gras beads, a baby cell phone, rattles, teethers, a wooden truck, cloth caterpillars, a froggy bell, and a laughing butterfly (it has a recording of a child giggling—your Daddy refers to it as the toy that mocks you). You also really enjoy your giraffe toy your godmother B gave you. Your Daddy has noticed that you will have a toy in each hand and consider them, choosing which to stuff in your mouth (usually you choose a wooden block). And sometimes you’ll just move your hands and watch them. You have a curious mind and find anything fascinating. It’s so interesting to see what intrigues you—ceiling fans, children playing, a magazine. One thing you think is particularly funny this month is when Mommy takes off her glasses (usually because you keep pulling at them).

You’ve been vocalizing a lot (you are especially loquacious when you are tired), saying “ah eh ih uh ew.” Other things you say are “blah blah blah” and “daaa,” often with your finger in your mouth. I personally believe you have attempted to say several things, like “yeah”, “hi” and “clap,” but only your Daddy believes me. Sometimes it appears that you try to imitate what we say. And from time to time, it seems like you are singing to yourself. But your favorite way of communicating is through blowing raspberries and making your “stinky face” with your nose all crinkled up, and blowing air in and out through your nose very fast. You will do this over and over again, and love it when we join in! It’s so funny. You’ve also started to try to give us kisses: you’ll open your mouth wide and smash it into some part of our face or neck. It is so sweet! Your Grandmama especially loves it when you do this to her!

You are a very, very good eater. This month you’ve gobbled down so many things: spinach, blueberries, peaches, avocado, oatmeal, sweet potatoes, squash, string cheese, Russian cheese, cream cheese, kefir, pastry from Uzbekistan, applesauce, pear sauce, salsa, egg yolks, bread, tofu, chicken, salmon, turkey, tortillas, Brussels sprouts, broccoli, cereals, soups, potatoes, various herbs, yogurt, marinara sauce, noodles, tomatoes, kale, barley, carrots, beets, the list goes on. You’ll eat anything! I feel like a mama bird when I feed you, with your big open O of a mouth waiting for food.

You are a very, very good sleeper, too. When it’s sleepytime, you go right to bed with your thumb in your mouth, and sometimes before naptime, you play in your crib for a while. You have a rabbit rattle your Aunt L gave you that you are delighted to see at naptime, and you bang it up and down and roll around with it in your crib and talk to yourself before settling down, invariably, on your tummy in some far corner of your bed to sleep. Sometimes before you sleep, or when you wake up, you smile and giggle at me through the slats of the crib, and it is so sweet.

And what a cuddly baby you have been this month. You reach your arms skyward when you want to be held, and you give hugs and wrap your arms partway around my neck. I love when you are cuddling in my arms after eating, and you reach up and touch my face and smile and talk to me (and grab my hair and glasses, too!)

This has been a wonderful month with you. I feel so lucky to be your Mommy.

With all my love,
Mama

The parrot at issue

So we have this parrot, Alice, right? An African grey.

These are the smartest, best talkers of the parrots, generally speaking, and Alice is certainly chatty. She probably says at least a hundred phrases/words/household sounds, and is really quite clever in her deployment of her vocabulary. She says “aww” when Baby cries, she says “no barking” when the dogs are making a racket, she says “hello” when the phone rings–that kind of thing. Alice also has a very charming love affair with my husband, and it is darling to watch the two cuddle. And the baby finds her thrilling.

But the problem is that that’s not all. She also screeches her head off, beeps insanely like the microwave, disobeys and climbs down off her perch to eat the furniture, escapes from time-out, flies over to crash the party when my husband and I are cuddling on the couch, and generally is quite skilled at being a nuisance.

This is normal parrot behavior. They aren’t, if you ask me, wonderful pets. They are dusty, loud, disobedient, demanding, destructive. And they live for 80 years. Alice is only five.

Alice’s life is better than the average parrot’s, I think. Since Baby and I are home all day, she has plenty of human contact, and we chat and interact with her whenever we’re in the kitchen (where her cage is) and bring her into the living room in the evenings (where she has a fancy perch). Yet this isn’t enough for her. She doesn’t care about me or Baby. She wants Husband to be holding her, tickling her, playing with her, all the time. The two hours in the evening he is around isn’t enough, especially since his attention is distracted by the baby, by dinner, by the computer, by her archenemy, me.

I guess things were different when Husband adopted her as a hatchling. We weren’t yet married (it’ll be four years in June), there was no Baby, he had a lighter work schedule. At that time, they were inseparable. Alice would vomit up her food for him to feed him like a baby parrot as a sign of love. And he (and then when I joined the house, we) had the time and energy to discipline Alice, to respond quickly and consistently to poor behavior. She got lots of positive attention, and didn’t depend on being bad to get noticed.

That changed when I was pregnant. I stopped feeling like popping up and running around the house to put Alice in time-out when she screamed (she was never entirely well-behaved, you see–no parrot is). Things went further downhill when Baby arrived. And now Alice is a terror. Throughout the house you can hear her screeching pretty much all day long. I have periods where I tolerate it, and sometimes I blow up and yell at her, which doesn’t help. She just finds that stimulating.

But my husband’s tolerance is gone. He says he doesn’t love the bird anymore, and that she doesn’t add anything to his life, just stress from her noise and from his guilt at not being able to devote more time to her. He says she’s the worst part of his life! I have to remind him to rescue her from time-out, to bring her into the living room, to cuddle her. And he wants to give her away, to find an aviary from which she could be adopted to a new home. He thinks that would meet her needs better. Plus, he wouldn’t have to listen to her for the next 75 years.

Personally, as much as Alice is totally obnoxious and I want her to shut the hell up sometimes (just the screaming, not her charming patter and imitations), I think it would be immoral to pawn her off. She would be devastated to leave Husband; he’s all she wants in the world. Some parrots kill themselves when they are separated from their human. Maybe she would be okay and find a new home, but maybe she wouldn’t. I feel like I would always wonder what happened to her. Plus, I think when my husband (against my better judgment at the time, by the way), brought her into his life, he made a commitment to her. What kind of lesson is it for Baby that you can just get rid of annoying family members?

I don’t want to sound all high-and-mighty. I’ve gotten rid of poorly-chosen pets before. Inexplicably, in college, I got rabbits, but gave them away to good homes before Baby came, because they were too much extra work and I didn’t get to interact with them enough. But the rabbits didn’t care about me, and I truly believe they have better lives in their respective new homes (one of them is with my mother and lives like royalty, the other has found a devoted mate). The same can’t be said of Alice.

Husband and I have been bickering about this for weeks, and I don’t know what to do. I told him it’s his decision, since it’s his bird (though I do all the care for her at this point, and most of the socialization), but that I basically think it would be wrong to abandon her just because we can’t get it together to control her behavior. It’s not her fault she’s obnoxious; that’s just how parrots are, and he knew that when he got her. He thinks it’s wrong to keep her when we can’t give her what she needs (plus, she is driving him insane), and has already contacted an aviary.

What do you think we should do?

Milky milk go bye bye

I think I’m weaning. My body seems to be giving up the ghost on lactation (I got less than three ounces yesterday morning after 10 hours of not pumping) and I feel like that is letting me off the milk production hook a little bit. I was going to wean in two months, but now I think I’ll wean over the course of the next few weeks, and finish up at nine months old (I think of things in specific month measurements because I rent the pump month to month).

My feelings about this turn of events are not entirely positive, and I think the hormonal shift I apparently am having is screwing with me a little (I’ve been informed I’m exceptionally surly these days), but on the whole I am looking forward to being done. One month less than my goal–that’s no so bad. Nine months is good. 3/4 of the way through her first year. Not stellar, but a B+ performance. I keep wondering how much of a difference to Baby’s overall nutritional profile one month less than planned of human milk will make. My husband thinks virtually none.

I am looking forward to:

–Wearing supportive bras that don’t smell like milk
–Not being on the computer as much (not that I will abandon my favorite blogs–I just think I’m getting too much screen time these days.)
–No longer worrying about getting Baby to finish an almost empty breastmilk bottle before starting on a fuller formula bottle for the increasingly common feedings that require supplementation (she likes to eat from full bottles, not almost-empty ones). She wants to waste some formula? She can go right ahead.
–No more crazy hormonal rushes during pumping–very excited about this.
–No pump parts to wash.
–Taking video of the baby with her father without the pump in the background.
–No more exposed breasts and stomach all the time.

Reading over this, those items seem kind of lame. Thank goodness they’re not why I am weaning. And it’s not really because of the lessened milk supply. I’ve never been one to think that inadequate supply was a reason to give up on breastfeeding–though I think there is limited utility in working very, very hard for very, very little. It is very strange that now I sort of want my milk to decline even more on its own, so I can feel no guilt about stopping, given how long I worked to increase.

I guess the simple thing is that I’m just about done with pumping, and ready to move on to putting my mothering efforts elsewhere. But it’s hard to let go of something I’ve worked so hard on for so long.

(I will have some packets of my illegally-obtained prescription galactagogue (Domperidone) left over if I stop in just five weeks. It expires in August of 2010. So I just need to have another baby by then so it won’t go to waste. What a cheapskate I am! Or maybe it would make a good baby shower gift!)

It’s video city!

Pulling up! Baby prefers to do this holding onto your hands for balance, but if you place her just right, she will pull up on furniture, too. Hear her grunt with excitement! What a strong baby.

Daddy can get her to move her feet like she’s walking, but she doesn’t do it for me! Wah! (It may be obvious that I was taping that while pumping).

And enjoy some other cute ones, too.
Hooray for Mardi Gras beads!
With her great-grandparents
Scooting on her back
Playing with Mardi Gras beads on the floor

My favorites:
Blowing raspberries, rolling, stinky face
Daddytime 2
Peekaboo!

That grey cat that keeps popping up? That’s Baby’s best friend, Pudding. They are inseparable.

The kitchen wife

There are two other wives in my husband’s life: his first wife, and his kitchen wife.

I’m not really a cook. Sure, I have a couple of tricks, like pistachios in matzo ball soup, and sundried tomatoes and pine nuts in…most everything. Generally, though, the supper cooking is within the purview of my husband, and everybody likes it like that. He has the patience, creativity, and skills. European-style, we go to the store almost every day to get fresh ingredients for dinner to make things from Cooks Illustrated. Baby and I tag along to the store, but don’t get sufficiently enthused about chef’s techniques to suit my husband.

That’s where his kitchen wife comes in. I’ve known my friend E for quite some time–since college. Back when I was working, we chatted online frequently, and we always settle in for long phone talks every few weeks. Though we’ve never met in person, she’s one of my dearest friends.

And at some point, I don’t remember quite how, she and Husband became friends, too. She’s a chef, and they are constantly chatting online about what they are cooking, how they are cooking it, what tools they are using, ooooh, doesn’t that sound good, oh yeah. Last Christmas we sent her some fancy meat thermometer my husband had made her mad for by bragging about the time.

Their relationship is really quite intense in some ways; nowadays, they talk more often than she and I do, since I never chat online anymore. They share an interest her husband and his wife don’t appreciate quite enough, and they’ve found each other. Her husband is wildly jealous, apparently, of her friendship with Husband, but I’m okay with it. I think it’s sweet and wholesome and besides, the food around here is always improving.

How did this happen?

In just the last week Baby has learned to pull herself to a stand (on Mommy and Daddy’s hands, and on furniture, if you position her feet just right before she pulls up), and how to walk assisted (if you balance her by the waist or the hands). It’s very impressive! Not even eight months old. She’s not interested in crawling, though, no siree (though perhaps this is changing–this morning she keeps rocking to try to get on all fours, it seems).

Also, two teeth, on the bottom, and she’s perhaps working on the two top ones! She’s sucked her poor thumbs raw and red; I’ve been putting olive oil and Lansinoh on them to try to calm the irritated skin. Baby is obsessed with her wooden blocks and has started to figured out her walker. Oh, and she’s worked out how to make the jumping exersaucer bounce! Plus, she seems to be considering strongly the mechanics of hand-waving, clapping, and high-fiving.

I really don’t want her to be mobile yet, though. Right now, for the long morning pump, I can sit her on the nursery floor with her wooden truck and blocks and other assorted toys and she’ll entertain herself, stationary, the whole time. What will I do when she can get around? And nothing’s babyproofed. No gates, no plastic plugs for the oulets, no bookshelves secured, no wires hidden. I can’t decide if I feel like it’s wrong to discourage mobility by limiting tummy time or otherwise delaying it somehow (any ideas on how I would manage that, anyway? It’s just as hard to make babies NOT do things as it is to make them). And she so loves developing these new physical skills (courtesy often of her father). But if she’d just wait ’till I’m done pumping!

(I have video evidence of her “walking” and pulling up skills that I’ll upload soon.)

Will Baby care that she was breastfed?

I remember in the early days when I was encountering my multitude of breastfeeding problems thinking a lot about this–wanting to be able to tell my baby she was just breastfed, thinking how she would care, perhaps imagining judgment if I “failed”. I distinctly recall wanting to be able to put in the baby book that she took no formula after her first week, and fretting overmuch when it turned out that I wouldn’t be able to state that. Now I’m not so sure it’s quite as big a deal.

I know I’m glad I was breastfed, and would be…something–irritated? confused?–if in fact I had not been, since it’s the normal course of events for babies, our biological heritage (I guess my baby will just have to miss out on the normal psychological benefits of the act of nursing, though). I guess I would feel owed an explanation, perhaps, if my mother had not nursed me. And the fact that I was breastfed for 10 months plays into my decision to pump about that long (at least that’s the plan).

I write regular letters to my baby, of course, and tell her all about her life, and hopefully she’ll enjoy them when she’s older, or at least I will. But I have said not one word about the breastfeeding challenges, the supplementing, the pumping. In her 8 days old letter I do say something about how she’d just nursed and was sleepy, but nothing besides that. Not many pictures of bottlefeeding her. I don’t want to make a big deal of the pumping, don’t want to record it as part of her babyhood. There’s a page for “nursing stories” in my baby book (it’s very progressive–it also has doula, home birth, and family bed pages, too!) that I suppose I’ll just leave out entirely. When she’s older and perhaps having her own babies one day and asks about breastfeeding, I’ll tell her all about it, though. She’ll probably just think I’m weird.

But since I DO care that I was breastfed, I guess I believe my baby will care. But she probably will never care as much about it as I do!

I don’t care about Easter, but I do care about photo ops!

What is this thing on my head?