Body Image

Hello Beloved Readers!

You may have noticed that body image has been on my mind over the past year or so. Not just because I have a daughter, but largely so. As Ms. Jackie the Boobmonster is now nursing really just for comfort (bedtime, owies, colds), and as my sweet tooth is unchanged, I'm now back up to the 140 lbs I weighed before Robert's birth. Interestingly, and perhaps not surprisingly to you moms and other wise folk, it's a rather different 140 lbs. My shoulders are totally ripped. I mean I found a crease in my deltoid to bicep transition that I didn't know existed. ROAR! But, there is some more soft stuff around my middle than there was five pounds ago. And I find the critical voices are back in my head. Not the mean, "OMG you're so fat" voices that were there before Robert. But more, "Yeah, that's a little squishy, time for more exercise and less wine."

Now, more exercise and less wine is quite advisable, for reasons of general health. (And before anyone gets really worried, we're talking 1 to 1.5 glasses, most but not all nights of the week. The intervention may be postponed a bit further.) But the belly? The belly is fine. The belly is soft but not disproportionate. The belly is appealing to the husband and still fits in all the newly-tailored pants except the ones the over-eager temp nanny put in the dryer (she was sweet but yeah that didn't work out). (And we didn't even ask her to do the laundry - she meant well.) And frankly if the pants did not fit, the real problem would be that I hate shopping, not that I'm "too big." I can do Aikido with Robert. I can heft my kiddos. I can kick box and do yoga. The belly GREW TWO PEOPLE. It is a magic belly. It is a wonderful belly, hailed in song and story (mostly by me and hubby Matt). So where are these critical voices coming from?

Away they must go. I am making a particular habit of letting the nice, kind, nurturing voice answer the critical voice. "Oh, sweetie, you look great, you're very healthy, and your tummy doesn't need to be totally flat, that's silly." Sometimes that doesn't work. Sometimes I have to go to, "What if Jackie sees you acting that way? Do you want her to freak out about five pounds or brag about her accomplishments in Parkour class?" This is a good motivator. What if we all talked like that to ourselves? What if I looked in the mirror when changing clothes and said, "Looking good, hot mama! And hey nice bruise there - good job putting Sensei on his fanny in class last week."This is my idea. It's hard to make those critical voices go away. It's much easier to distract the busy brain with a totally different conversation. What if when girls asked how they looked in an outfit we said, "You look like a badass soccer player?" "You look smart?" "You look beautiful all the time because of that amazing smile?"

Try it on yourself. Next time you hear that voice, don't argue with it. Just change the subject. "Oh, these pants don't fit like they used to." "Hey, good job in yoga class last week!"

You're all beautiful and I love you.

Suzi

InfoCrap and Breastfeeding

Hello Dear Readers,

So, a couple of folks recently linked on my facebook page to an article in the New York Times, "Breast Milk Donated or Sold Online Is Often Tainted, Study Says." Reading the article, I discovered that this is classic InfoCrap of the Drawing Spurious Conclusions and Sampling Error Variety. The study only uses PURCHASED breastmilk. I think the women who want to GIVE AWAY their precious liquid gold are a very different population. The article also implies, by poor clarity and placement of lists, that Eats on Feets is a breast milk SELLING site, not donating, which is NOT TRUE.

What is InfoCrap? Well, until this week, it was going to be the name of my next big project/blog/perhaps book. But someone has it at gmail and blogger. So while looking for a new name, I'll just leave that as a "tickler" out there.

But none of you mamas and breastfeeding supporters will be in the LEAST surprised to find yet another article in the mainstream media which is misconstruing scientific studies to draw alarmist conclusion and sell papers/clicks/eyeballs.

Heavy sigh.

Much love,
Suzi

"Justice" and Breastfeeding

Okay so this is fairly absurd, not to mention ironic in "The Show Me State."

http://www.kansascity.com/2013/10/18/4562040/breastfeeding-mom-faces-penalties.html

I'd like to take a moment to point out that the fine state of Oregon is one of the eleven alluded to in the article which allows exemption from jury duty for breastfeeding mothers. Because WE believe in freedom, and babies. (Sticks out tongue in vaguely Southeast direction.) Even California will let you off the hook for being sole caregiver of a kiddo under five.

So that said, I will say that in my experience it usually helps to start with factual statements of need in a polite tone. "I would like to serve my civic duty, but my son is dependent on me for food and child care, and my first responsibility is to him." Or something. Meanwhile I'm pleased to see that some proposed legislation is on the docket in MO. It's 2013, people. Babies matter. Other self-righteous statements of indignance.

Mama Suzi is on your side, ladies.

Much love,
Suzi

My Milk Sharing Story

Hello Beloved Readers!

I crafted this missive in text edit on a flight home in July because I didn't want to pay for Gogo Inflight. Other topics seemed more pressing until now, so here it finally is.

So, I've been a little in the closet on my milk sharing experience. I think I was waiting until it was all the way done in case a relative reads my blog and freaks out. But since I believe strongly in walking my talk, leading by example, and giving other mamas someone to point to when they are trying to make an argument (point all you want ladies! I'm here for you!) it's time to come out and share this story.

At the recent annual potluck picnic for Alma Midwifery, my assistant midwife (who stitched me up with purple thread) affirmed my milk sharing - "Some mamas make buckets full and some mamas make thimbles full." I was more in the shot glass range. But what a wonderful way to put it. And what a clear sign that the time for this blog post is here.

I couldn't keep up with my kiddos just via pumping. Nursing I did fine, they gained weight and grew tons and pooped and peed and cuddled and had milk dribbling down their absurdly adorable chins. But the pump ain't no baby. Some mamas produce great for the pump. Some mamas can't get squat for the pump. Some mamas are queens of hand expression - my hat is off, ladies, I never figured it out. And is that the cheapest pump or what! And you never forget it, and it never short circuits… sigh. Anyway, point is, I couldn't feed my kiddos exclusively my milk while holding down an office gig. With Robert, I negotiated for working Wednesdays at home, which meant I could feed on demand AND avoid a nearly two hour round trip commute (some of which I gave back to my job, to try to push the point that we were both better off this way). With my current gig, I talked about some alternatives with my boss. He was understanding and respectful and gave it honest consideration but essentially we couldn't come up with a solution with which we were both comfortable. I was a bit disappointed, but because he handled it so gently and politely, totally not mad at him at all. So for Ms. Jackie, I needed a different answer.

Like with Robert, I tried getting up at 5 in the stinking morning to pump. The exhaustion is crazy enough without this kind of behavior and I STILL wasn't getting enough. Matt would bring Jackie to me at lunch to nurse, which is super awesome snuggly fun, and replaces a bottle, but I'm a mama who gets less at the pump after nursing (a lot of us do) so in a way this netted out to zero. Well, not really because of the snuggles, and nursing does better than pumping at keeping up supply. But it didn't solve the problem. And while I am long past judging any other mother who turns to formula in this situation, I just was too scared of getting that ONE canister with the deadly bacteria in it.

So one morning I was up too early, totally exhausted, pumping and not getting enough, and crying. I emailed some girlfriend mamas who I knew would understand in my moment of darkness. And my beloved friend Mama A.D. (those are her initials, not a reference to the birth of Jesus) emailed me back privately. She gave birth to her third baby a few months after I gave birth to Jackie, and was still at home with her. She said she remembered from her previous kiddos that she tended to have more than she needed, so after she filled and froze all her containers for her nursling, she could fill some bags for Jackie.

While I was tremendously grateful and relieved, I was also a bit nervous. What would hubby think? Would he play along? Would the difference in our personal biospheres cause me or Jackie to get yeast again? A non-trivial risk to Suzi the Yeast Factory. I went to Eats on Feets and researched the idea. They had a list of questions to ask potential donors, which I emailed to A.D. and she graciously answered. Of course there was no way to know about our personal differences in microscopic organisms, so I researched pasteurization on the same website, and printed out the procedure for Hubby Matt. He was a bio major, so when the time came to pasteurize the milk for the first time, he said, "It's just like Chem lab!" Bless his geeky little heart. We quickly discovered that straight up pasteurized milk was unpalatable to Jackie, but cut 50/50 with my milk, she would take it.

So when I got my first shipment, and looked at all those bags of Liquid Gold, I realized everything was going to be okay. Okay is defined as not going to make me so anxious and upset as to finally go totally off the deep end. I would be able to make my business trip (about 36 hours long). I would be able to concentrate at work. I would be okay. Jackie would be okay. Of course Jackie would have been okay with a bit of formula. But I wasn't sure I would.

Mama A.D. sent me two shipments. In between, Mama R.C., who has been previously referenced on this blog as one of my inspiring angels during the misery of first learning to breastfeed with a bad latch and thrush, mentioned that she had tons of milk in her freezer which her second baby didn't need (he was past bottles and chowing on lots of solids) and she needed the room in her freezer and she hated to waste food but she was going to have to throw it out. ACK! Don't do that, send it to me! This seems like a good time to mention that both these women are hundreds of miles away from me. I have my own FedEx account, (you can just sign up for one and use a credit card for payment) and would email my milk donor mamas a form to print to send back the milk, after I had sent them my fancy cold shipping box with my fancy cold packs. This thing has made five, maybe six trips, and could go a couple more, so I say it was a great investment. I also sent Mama A.D. some breastmilk bags, so the transaction would be as costless for her as possible.

So I got a bazillion bags of milk from Mama R.C., and that got us almost all the way to one year. We needed a bit more, or it was going to get sticky at the end. My first two milk donor mamas are dear friends whom I would trust with my kids (and literally had already in R.C.'s case, as she graciously held Robert for an hour when Matt was at a rehearsal and I was on my way back from a business meeting). But I needed one more. And the universe lined me up. A fellow volunteer at the Nursing Mother's Counsel of Oregon, who is a lactation consultant, shared that she knew a mama who had stockpiled a bunch of milk for her baby before a week abroad, and the kid had refused to drink it, so she had it to spare. This was a total stranger. I trusted my fellow counselor, and as an IBCLC I knew she would never suggest accepting milk from a heroine addict or something. But it was still a big leap. I asked to meet her. The mama graciously came to my home, bringing a couple bags of the milk to see if Jackie would take it (she wasn't sure if maybe she had the dreaded lipase problem and that was why her son had refused the goods). She was very gracious when I had transposed two numbers in my address and she was wondering up and down the block. She was so gentle and understanding about my concerns, she instantly put me at ease. We pasteurized her milk, gave it to Jackie that week, and my little excellent eater was happy to take it. So Matt went to pick up the rest of the goldmine from her home, and we sent her flowers as a thank you. (My previous two mamas got Moonstruck Chocolates, but I didn't know if this mama was a fan or had sugar restrictions or anything, so flowers seemed safer.) Her stash saw us comfortably through Jackie's first birthday and the subsequent pump-weaning. I was saved. Jackie never had to have formula, about which she probably wouldn't have complained but I was super freaked out. I never had to cancel a business trip or leave work in the middle of the day to feed her. And my husband learned more than he ever wanted to know about the varying fat content of different women's breast milk.

I will be forever grateful to these mamas. I wish I could pay it forward in kind, but instead I will have to seek to inspire other mamas to consider sharing milk if they are at the bucket end of the spectrum. I have heard so many inspiring milk sharing stories since. A mama who was diagnosed with breast cancer in pregnancy. Two dads seeking to provide their adopted baby with breast milk. Mamas on life-saving medications not compatible with breastfeeding. Mamas with IGT (Insufficient Glandular Tissue) or who had been through breast reductions. In the face of stories like these, I felt embarrassed asking for help feeding my healthy, privilege kiddo so I could stay at my middle-upperclass white collar job without distraction, even though I could afford formula. (What, me, load guilt on myself? Why do you ask?) But from friends who had enough to share, I could accept help. And from a mama who was so kind and understanding as our third donor, it was easy.

Let's rewind for a moment to, say, 1800. "Before there was formula, there were sisters and grandmas." When a mama died in childbirth, a wet nurse was found. When a mama couldn't produce enough, a sister helped out. There are even historical references to aunts and grandmas relactating when mama died or couldn't feed her baby. Handing over bags of frozen milk is the modern equivalent. I found nursing so intimate and loving, I would hesitate to hand Jackie to another mama to nurse. At the very least, I couldn't have watched. But accepting frozen Liquid Gold from trusted friends to give my kiddo? Heck yeah.

I should also point out, if you have more than 100 ounces to spare and fit a somewhat stringent list of requirements (like no Advil, yikes), you can donate to milk banks. This gift literally saves lives when fragile newborns need human milk. The stories are heart wrenching. Had I enough to spare I wouldn't have qualified because of the Sertraline (which also saves lives, thank you, but that's another post). Please consider this option if you are in a position to do so. And for Pete's sake, please don't make cheese out of your breastmilk when you could be saving babies. I like cheese and I don't care about your dietary tastes, but I like saving babies more than I like new culinary experiences.

So that's a lot of links. It's a big topic. Sometimes it takes a village just to FEED the baby, let alone raise her up to be a responsible, happy, useful person. The planet has enough resources if we take care of it right. This is also true of lifesaving, amazing, wonderful human milk. Please share if you can and accept help if you need it.

Much love as always,

Suzi

Gallows Humor

Beloved Readers,

Hello! I hope you are all well and surviving the beginning of the school year, High Holy Days, back to school sales, or whatever else your calendars hold, with aplomb. It's been a bit too long since my last post, but I think you will understand when you hear what we've been up to. On August 10, less than four months after my father-in-law succumbed to colon cancer after a nearly five year battle, we lost my mother-in-law as well. We don't know exactly what happened yet, but it was at the same time sudden (we got a call that she was found unconscious, put Matt on the next flight, and she had passed before he got to Indianapolis), and not unexpected. She had been in ill health for many years, was suffering from cognitive decline, and was of course struggling to find life and comfort without Gary after so many decades at his side. She was buried next to him on what would have been their 49th wedding anniversary. Some couples don't make sense without each other, and in a way it's a mercy that she didn't have to try to figure out how to do so.

So Hubby Matt has had a bit of a rough year, to say the least. I've had tough times over the years, and in my family, when the going get tough, the tough get sarcastic. Mom and I were giggling while we were at the side of Dad's death bed. Well, not RIGHT at his side, and certainly not at him. But we have always found comfort in the "laugh rather than cry" approach to trials and tragedy.

Not everyone finds this comforting. Exhibit A, Matt looked more horrified than consoled when I tried to look on the bright side, "Well, it can't happen again!"

I think I'm learning when a joke would not be appreciated and keeping it to myself. You could ask Matt if he thinks I'm figuring it out but frankly I'd rather you didn't. But more interesting, I think I'm finally figuring out where this comes from. I've always interpreted it as toughness, or optimism. A way to keep going through the tough times, to get done what must be done (Have you noticed how the first two weeks after someone dies are just a huge freaking to-do list?) without letting grief or anger slow you down (too much). And perhaps it serves that purpose. But more likely it's just a convenient way to hide from pain. If you can laugh, you won't cry, or at least you get a moment of rest from crying (raise your hand if you have done both simultaneously. Yep.) If you can make angry jokes, you don't have to think about how sad or unfair or just freaking inconvenient this next challenge is. I thought I was being optimistic, but maybe I was just being scared. I've thought of this humor as feisty and strong, but maybe I just didn't want to do the hard work of grieving when it's inconvenient. I've yet to thoroughly examine whether the jokes and comments are actually funny. It's not really the point. The real point is, I think maybe I can understand why Matt doesn't find these comments funny. He's wrong, of course, I'm a total crackup. But we don't all handle grief in the same way, and what has comforted me in the past strikes him as perhaps too stark.

A quick comment on Pat. It seems a fitting tribute to her memory that, as the family gathered in the house this weekend to work on cleaning it out for sale, the foodies in the family descended on her cook book collection like flies. Like Gary, she liked to play host, and feed people well. And she loved her family very much. In tribute to her legacy, we should all eat something with way too much cholesterol in it, and share it with a loved one, and demand that they sing after dinner.

Much love,
Suzi

My Baby Has Wings

Hello beloved readers!

So, I think I have alluded already to Robert's ... okay I have deleted five attempts to characterize the situation in some pithy manner. At the recommendation of his preschool teachers, we have had him evaluated by the school district for various things. He has qualified for extra support under "developmental delay" in adaptive - self care like potty use, brushing teeth - and social.  We are also in the process of beginning to evaluate him for Autism spectrum disorder, emotional disturbance (anxiety), and "other health" (ADD/ADHD), all due to results from this initial screening. (Before anyone freaks out, I am NOT going to let anyone medicate my four year old for being a space cadet. If it looks necessary when he's 14 we'll talk.)

Robert is crazy smart. I'm not bragging - although I value intelligence I don't think it's the only positive quality in a child and I don't even consider it the most important one. But the kid is 4 and a half and just tested as reading at the first grade level, he can do some addition and subtraction, and he made an analogy before he was 2. He walks on his tiptoes almost all the time, goes up and down stairs same foot first always, he's very sensitive to sound and certain types of touch and food textures, he freaks out when routines change or at transitions unless he gets a bunch of warnings.

So the kid probably has Aspergers. Plus anxiety, possibly OCD (my gene, sorry kid) and possibly ADD (that's Dad's gift, so I'm off the hook). He's introverted, which is NOT a disorder despite what society might think, but in addition to his other sensitivities it makes preschool a challenge. All of this has added up to some disturbing behavior, weird violent statements you wouldn't expect out of a four year old, or at least that I didn't. And of course then his grandpa up and died in April. Oops. That probably didn't help.

This evening I was singing the requested bedtime song, realized I had forgotten a verse, and went off to get my song book. I came back in singing the song, and Robert insisted that I get back in bed next to him, resume petting his back, and start the song over from the beginning. "My goodness, you're so particular!" I teased. "Yeah, that's just the way I am," he replied, smiling. This of course totally cracked me up.

After seeing X-Men - I think the second one? I dunno, but the one with the guy with the wings. I had a typical Mama Suzi reaction. Not a major plot point spoiler, so I'll share the bit that's relevant - you see a sort of flash back to when the kid was a 'tween and started growing wings. He was alone in the bathroom trying to get them to stop, with a bunch of sharp kitchen tools, including a zester which I have. (I almost threw away the zester when I got home.) His mom walks in on him and you see the shapes above his shoulder blades where his wings are developing. I think the movie character mom just gasps. Countless times after seeing that movie I imagined myself in that mom's place, gathering the little boy in my arms, insisting that no matter what grew out of his shoulders he did NOT deserve to be zested, that he was my little boy and I loved him and we would figure this out together. I imagined me putting neosporin on his skin and tucking him into bed. I figured out how I would have shirts and suits tailored to accommodate his wings, rather than letting him bind them as the character does in the movie in an attempt to hide his "mutation." I figured if he itched when he molted I'd go find a bird vet to ask what to put on him, on the down low of course. And then because my imagination is faster than the speed of lint, I would picture taking him to Charles Xavier's school, but not wanting to leave, so I'd be like the dorm mom, cooking for all the kids and cuddling them and telling them that no matter how their parents reacted to their special gifts, they were wonderful and deserved to be loved.

Yes I am a huge geek. Geek is sexy. I'm down with it. (For fun some time ask me about the Harry Potter movies.) I never really thought any of this would come true. But it has. Robert has wings. He is amazingly bright and creative and thoughtful and sensitive and charming. And these gifts have a cost. We need to find ways for him to learn navigate an overstimulating world without being overwhelmed. We need to prepare him to deal with bullies and prejudice. (Aikido class starts next Saturday.) And we have to be extra careful to show him how much we value our own special gifts, and understand their costs.

My baby has wings.

Much love,
Suzi

Royal Cuteness, Brave Duchess

Hello Beloved Boobjuicers and Friends!

So I have a (in my not quite as humble as it should be opinion) fantastic blog post on milk sharing all drafted up, but I need to comment on Young George, born to the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge (a FINE hamlet in which I spent a DELIGHTFUL summer of '94, but I digress). There are a lot of things I have to say.

One. Duchess Kate, AKA Kate Middleton, looks FANTASTIC. She is glowing with joy and beaming with pride, as she should be. George was NOT SMALL, at eight pounds and six ounces (so obviously anyone who fussed that she didn't gain enough waits may now apologize to the new mama). Well discussed here. She is showing her beautiful, magical belly (dude it just GREW a PERSON thankyouverymuch), not hiding it under some tent or behind strategically placed diaper bags. And that is a fabulous dress and she looks PERFECT. I have had a GLASS of WINE and have become quite LIBERAL with the ALL CAPS. Forgive me. I am NOT SHOUTING, merely EXUDING ENTHUSIASM. Right, anyway.

Okay two. She is reported to be breastfeeding. Huzzah! As illustrated in this amazing spoken poem by another brave and beautiful British mama, Holly McNish, the Duchess lives in a country which might be even more uptight about using breasts for feeding babies than my beloved homeland. (Seriously people, if you never click on any other links I ever post, watch that one. That poem makes me tear up every single time I watch it. I'm over four years into my nursing story and this HITS HOME.) (Oops, more all caps.) So point being. What a powerful example to send. I am praying and praying she will nurse in public. Even with a cover it would be such a powerful message to send. We need leadership like hers (and lots of other amazing publicly nursing celebrity mamas) to show that breasts are first and foremost for feeding babies and woman who choose to do so have nothing to hide.

Three. She chose her health care providers, reportedly, according to her wishes, not Royal Tradition. In this case, that meant OBs in a hospital. British health service standard is a midwife at home. I think you all know or can guess where I stand on midwifery versus the medical model of care. But even more important than that, to me, is informed consent and mothers' rights. She wants an OB, the Queen's gynocologist, a hospital, and a phalanx of nurses? Good on ya, Duchess. Have at it. She must be allowed to choose the birth setup in which she feels most comfortable, in order to maximize her odds of a healthy birth, healthy baby, and amazing, soul-touching transition from pregnancy to mamahood. As should every mom.

So here's the bottom line. This new mama is BRAVE. With every freaking camera in the British Empire trained on her, she's showing her tummy. She's nursing. She's choosing the birth she wants (it would seem). I hope she is able to maintain her bravery through those nerve-wracking early weeks and months, when incognito mamas have seemingly 100 unsolicited opinions per topic. The Duchess, you can be sure, will have a thousand times more flung at her.

I would LOVE five minutes with this mama. and not just because I love sniffing adorable new babies. SOOOO CUTE. Oops. I stopped after one glass but then I had ice cream. Anyway, if I got just one minute, I would say:

"Thank you for your brave choices. Keep trusting your instincts. As for the help you want, turn down the help you don't want. Get as much support as you can, real support not just a zillion staffers running about. And know that you are AMAZING and doing a wonderful job."

Now a quick digression. I'm hearing a lot of snarky attitude about the attention that His Royal Highness Prince George of Cambridge has received in the press and from the public. In pointing out that no baby is more important than any other, they are of course quite right. But I think they are missing the real points here. What a fantastic opportunity to open discussions on prenatal care, birthing choices, post-partum support, breastfeeding, and parenting. And further, what is more hopeful than a healthy baby born to loving parents?  This is a wonderful time to turn away from the news of economic uncertainty, disease, starvation, scandal, blah blah blah, and say, "Wow, that's really wonderful. I think I'll go hug my kids/partner/best friend."

Much love to the Duchess, the Duke, His Royal Highness Prince George of Cambridge,
and as always much love to all of you,
Suzi

Boobjuice Heroes: Mama Cameron

Hello Dear Readers!

Okay so when I say "boobjuice heroes," I should really say, "Suzi's heroes who breastfed," because so far that's who I've lined up. Y'all can read about Mama Rachael, who is an amazing doctor and friend and mama and cook and seamstress and urban homesteader and I could go on. Well, Cameron is another one of my sheroes. She is brilliant and freaking hilarious and totally fearless and eloquent. She is an accomplished attorney and makes absurdly complicated cakes for her kids. And, she is also a triumphant boobjuicer. Here is her story, as she shared it with me an embarrassingly long time ago.

Cameron is a Medical Malpractice Attorney, and her husband Joe works two hours away by car and train. When they had Robert, she took off three months, went back to work from home part time and in the office part time. Cameron's mom and a lactation consultant who is a part time nanny provided child care when both Cameron and Joe were working, and Joe stayed home one day a week to be with the baby.

She went nominally part time when she started to have children, but last month billed 170 hours... you can never really have an idea of how many hours a case is going to take, and one case took 150 of those 170 hours - sometimes that's just the way it happens. Unfortunately one month sets expectations for the next month. If you don't make things clear all the time you may as well just agree to having your life taken apart bit by bit.

Cameron's second child, Max, adopted clusterfeeding at 3 days old until five months old. So for example, in post partum sculpt class, she would feed before, twice during, and right after class. He was a fast eater – a hungry hungry, fast growing little guy. “One of the things I was so happy I learned when I had Robert and got force-educated on how breastfeeding can be: Every kid is different, all have different schedules and needs, and it's ridiculous to think adults can dictate to the kid. With Robert, everything went wrong with delivery into the breastfeeding relationship. That was really hard, sad, frustrating, and scary. I'm really glad we made it through, because had we given up and gone to bottles would have been hard for me and worse for him.”

Robert was induced 3 weeks early. Cameron had gestational diabetes and hypertension, and an ultrasound found low fluid. Being in the hospital on magnesium sulfate was a nightmare. Her main obstetrician was out of town, the on call OB having a bad weekend and being a big jerk. He was insulting, it was scary and awful, but once she got the epidural all was fine. Except for the magnesium sulfate. Baby came out - he was in pain, something was wrong, his jaw was really pulled back. So she dutifully did the skin to skin, and the IBCLC said looks good. In the pediatrician's office three days later, he had dropped weight, so she forced a bottle of formula into his mouth and there was a lot of crying. The doc sent them to the hospital, where an IBCLC said it was fine, meanwhile Cameron's milk came in "like I had triplets." (She said the oversupply was nice because she was able to donate a lot of milk.) His latch was no good ("chompie the destroyer") because his jaw was pulled so far back. After a couple weeks she tried calling around to private lactation consultants, they would all say it was fine and Cameron was worrying for no reason.

Finally at five weeks she snapped, she and Joe were fighting, she was in pain, Robert was having difficulty. So she went to the last name on her list of LCs. She hadn't called this person because she thought it was a guy, her name was Jay. She was fabulous. She came to the house, sat down with Cameron and the baby for about four hours. She was the first person who actually picked up the baby and looked in his mouth, and said this is not good. She felt in his mouth, found and uneven palate and a bubble. Jay referred Cameron to a neuromuscular therapist, who managed to relax the baby's neck and shoulders to get his jaw to release about an inch forward, and then he could nurse fine. Not even the pediatrician really examined the baby. So it took about six weeks to get things going well. Cameron also has that lipase problem where you have to scald milk if it's not going to be used within 12 hours. When she pumped at work she would take it home and scald it and then refrigerate it.

Job and pumping:

"Ah, I pump everywhere. At least my office has solid doors and no windows interior to the office. A lot of offices are glass. So when out and about, doing depositions and such, it can be a trick to create a safe place to pump. Think I've only pumped in the car once." Cameron has pumped in the shower room of a surgery center at UCSF, various bathrooms at various law practices. What's really tricky is making the time to do it. In her industry, attorneys' days are scheduled so that you get in at 9, depositions start at 10, don't know when your case will be called. "I had to get really good at saying 'I need to take a break,' but people didn't hear that, so I had to overcome squeemishness, mine and others', and say, 'I need to pump breastmilk now.' Fortunately I haven't had to confront many others' squeemishness, but I have heard, 'Well how long are you going to do that for?' Sometimes I need to educate people."

She had a court case where she was second chair, and had to tell the clerk about that and explain what she would need - a clean safe place, sink, door that locks, and she would need to use it at these times. They were really good about that, but Cameron had to be sure she made the effort to explain that and do it "for my kids and to make it available to other women who think it's not possible to do this work and breastfeed at the same time." She lives in Northern California, and found that folks are generally pretty easy about it. There are a lot of older men in this field, and not a lot of women, but they all know Cameron at this point, as she had been at it for about 8 years. "So I'll make a joke about it and everything is okay. I do feel like I spend part of my time making them uncomfortable enough to get them accommodate me and then making enough humor about it to get them to accommodate me."

"It's just sort of part of every minute of every day. I find I get really stressed out and anxious if I'm filling up or I've gotten engorged - like its own egg timer." Day care was 2 blocks away from the office so she could go at lunch time and feed the little guys. She felt that with Robert she was actually better about staying put for about six months - didn't go out and do a lot of depositions and assignments until she had been dealing with office scene for six months. With Max she dove back in faster, and it was more challenging. With her husband working so far away, she had to be within 20 minutes of the daycare at all time. She was still striving to make partner at her firm, and wanted to take on more responsibility. It's a small firm, so no formal partner track per se. She started talking about it at three years, but didn't feel financially responsible to do so at that time, knowing she wanted to start a family. Salary is also more secure than profit sharing.

"I think I did much better this time in that six month maternity leave, just being able to sit and hold the baby, and being better about that, not worrying about vacuuming and errands." Being able to get the breastfeeding thing down right away was such a relief. She had a lot of anxiety about whether it would be hard again. Robert nursed until 18 months, he quit at Christmas time, when Cameron was newly pregnant with Max. He was only really nursing in the mornings and at night, and then just in the morning, and then one day he just didn't do it. And about three days later he seemed kind of interested in starting it up again, but Cameron was really busy and not feeling great and said no, and he was cool with it. She felt a little sad about it, but they were so close otherwise, that she didn't feel like she was missing something. Then she was pretty happy to not be nursing later in the pregnancy, because she got "pretty big and uncomfortable."

"I first thought, I'll do this for six months and then switch over to formula, but as it became such a struggle and I learned more about it, I got more invested, not only for me and my son but also to help other people make a difficult situation work. It was so much harder than I though it was going to be - less instinctive than one would imagine. Then once things were working, it was so much easier than bottles and the alternatives. A very strange trip, that early situation. Man it makes airplane flying easier. We nursed in airplanes, rental cars, beaches, hotel lobbies, conferences…"

So that is my interview with Cameron. I find her story so inspiring. She overcame a difficult birth experience and a lot of totally failed support at the beginning to establish a wonderful nursing experience with her first babe. She was great about sticking up for her need to pump milk while holding down a demanding job in a male-dominated profession. (Although I think she might agree with me that sometimes, when you say you need to pump, a lot of men are so scared you'll tell them more details about breastfeeding, they'll give you anything you want just to shut you up.) And she helped forge the trail for the next mama - something all of my boobjuice heroes have done. I am delighted and proud to call her my friend, and I hope her story inspired you the way it has for me.

Much love,
Suzi

Happy Mother's Day!

Hello Dear Readers!

Robert is explaining to me how to crush an ice cube with a shop fan. It's fascinating. I can hear Matt singing Jackie to sleep upstairs. She had a total nap fail day so I'm hopeful she'll fall asleep quickly and maybe hubby and I can get a few waking minutes to ourselves on this glorious Mother's Day. Jackie has been all boobs all day, as she is wont to be, and my boys have been fun and charming. I got to do some yard work - I like yard work, as long as someone with some actual competence shows me what to do - before the rain came, and then I got to have a yummy burger and absurd quantity of delicious french fries for dinner. And a glass of rioja. Yum. And a cookie. Health food. Really. The day started with the requested Moonstruck Chocolates at my plate, after hubby made French toast for dinner. I got a present that Robert made at preschool, which is of course the best thing ever.

I hope each of you has had a wonderful day of celebrating motherhood, or celebrating your mother, or mothering yourself, or something else nurturing and cuddly.

Also, this isn't about motherhood particularly, but I think this post is very brave and illuminating. She is often totally pants peeing funny, too. Mood disorders, depression, and other mental illnesses are badly understood and really awful to experience. I am taking a moment from my calorie-laden Mother's Day celebration to send gratitude for my improving health (including a shout-out to the inventor of Zoloft), and to remember all those who are still struggling.

Robert just made me another present and Matt stuck his head out to wonder why I'm not getting Robert ready for bed yet. Off to change a poopy diaper!

Much love,
Suzi

UPDATE: Matt points out that he made French Toast for breakfast, not dinner. I was typing this post AFTER the glass of wine, thank you, and while trying to encourage Robert not to be afraid to poop, but to please hurry up and finish doing so as it was past bedtime. I lead a glamorous existence, people.

Tweet Tweet! And a quick whine.

Hello dear readers!

I have started tweeting! It's fun. I don't entirely get it yet. But if you are so inclined, check out @suzisboobjuice.


Also, a quick complaint. I have, probably, torn the meniscus in my knee. I'm not entirely sure what that is, but despite excellent improvement via physical therapy, it's looking more and more like I might end up with surgery. I figure it can't be worse than a c-section so I'm not really worried about the procedure. But I don't want to deal with some surgeon's idea of what is a reasonable impingement on my nursing relationship with Jackie. So I'm basically off kickboxing until Jackie weans. Unless I decide otherwise. Meanwhile we'll keep at the physical therapy until it isn't helping anymore and hope that maybe it's not really a torn meniscus after all... But really, can you just see the conversation with me and the surgeon?

"No narcotics, no general anesthesia, and no industrial-strength antibiotics."
"Uh, no surgery."
"Okay, see you next year."

Not worth the copay.

Sigh.

Anyway this is my chance to work on my biking again!

Much love,
Suzi

The Big Transitions

Hello dear boobjuicers and friends,

I am forgoing my usual exclamation point because I have some sad news. My beloved father-in-law passed away on April 23, after a nearly five year battle with colon cancer. He was a wonderful man; an accomplished scientist and business man, a treasured mentor, a kind and loving husband and father and grandfather, and a delightful host. He is and will be sorely missed.

Birth and death are the two biggest transitions I can think of. Becoming a parent is pretty huge but I think even the most exhausted of us will acknowledge it's not quite as big a change as ceasing to be alive. Similarly to birth, I think death is feared and poorly understood in our culture. Okay, probably fair to say that death is feared in many or maybe even most cultures. But in terms of setting, attitude, comfort - it's something we often get rather wrong.

Gary died at home, in the house he and my mother-in-law had custom built to face the sunset over the lake. His son and daughter were with him at the end, and he had received many visits and communications of love and gratitude in his final days. He had hospice care to keep him as comfortable as possible, and was no longer receiving the aggressive medical treatments that many of us dread. He didn't want a drawn-out ending with months of uselessness and misery, and thankfully he didn't have that.

My father died in a hospital, but he too was surrounded by love and caring. I was holding one of his hands, and my mother was snuggled up next to him in his hospital bed (she got very adept at balancing on about 1/3 of a hospital bed and doing crossword puzzles during his 15 month battle with colon cancer). (By the way, colon cancer and me - not buds.) The wonderful things my mom said to him in his final moments, which I don't feel at liberty to repeat but they were so sweet and inspiring, were a lovely acknowledgement of the amazing life he had lived. He managed to squeeze my hand just a tiny bit, so I knew he heard me rattling off a list of people who loved him through my tears. A very dignified nurse was holding his other hand, ostensibly to monitor his pulse, but since Dad had a pacemaker, he had a pulse for a while after he was gone. So I think the nurse was really just holding his hand. When dad was clearly gone, the nurse removed his glasses, slowly wiped a tear from each eye, and put Dad's hand down.

No IVs, no shock paddles or injections to bring him back like in ER episodes. Just let him slip away and rest, and trust that wherever he is now, he is in no pain, and has nothing to fear any longer. My faith has become a big question mark over the years, but I do know that the soul or spirit is real, and that the laws of physics say you cannot destroy matter or energy, only convert them to the other or to another form of one or the other. I've stated that poorly, but my point is, in one way or another, Gary and my Dad are still here. They are clearly present in the impact they have had on those who survive them. I think they are here in another way, in the energy present in the universe that we cannot see or understand but only feel and trust and respect, even revere.

Birth and death are sacred. We must make the person at the center of the transition feel as comfortable and loved as possible. And we must help each other through these difficult transitions as gently as we possibly can.

Be well and love one another fiercely, my dear readers.

With joyful tears of remembrance and grief,
Suzi

Robert's Birth

Hello Dear Readers!

Huh. I blog every four to six weeks. Which is funny - I talk MUCH more frequently than that... Is that too infrequent? Am I losing my dear readers? Or are my dear readers grateful that I'm not stuffing their in-boxes with EVERY random thought that hits my odd little brain? There are a lot of them...

So anyway. After the What You Need to Prepare for Baby post, one of my favorite people, Mama G.A., and I have been trying to convince each other to write essentially the same thing, but for birth. We also want to rope in Dr. Rachael, whom I introduced here, since she catches babies professionally in a total Midwife in Disguise way. But that feels like a huge, daunting project to us, and we're both scared of getting it wrong, forgetting something important, or in some other way messing up someone's birth experience. Birth is sacred, and as intimate as conceiving the baby in the first place. So we are understandably hesitant. And collectively rather busy, as well.

Well, while we work up the nerve to draft that post, I thought it might be helpful to outline my birth experiences here. I was going to try to remain objective and just compare and contrast the two. But then this post got reeeeally long, and I realized I just needed to write Robert's birth story, Meanwhile I'm imagining a nice, simple table for comparing the two models of care, via my experience.

So, spring 2008. (Yes, the stock market was about to implode. Every time I have a baby the market hits a bottom shortly after. And every time I go for a degree, the U.S. goes to war in Iraq. You will be relieved, therefore, to hear that I am done with both of these forms of creation, thank you.) Robert was conceived as soon as Matt would put up with when baby's birthday would be (he didn't want to stick the kid with a Christmas birthday) after we decided it was time to have kiddos. I had good but not fabulous insurance, an HMO plan. I like HMOs because they are simple and lower cost for the patient, and tend to generate less paperwork. But obstetricians do not like HMOs. So despite living six blocks from Huntington Memorial Hospital, and a mile from a fabulous Ob-Gyn whom I adored, I had to hunt and hunt for an Ob who would take this insurance. At this time in life, too, I was not as good at research (being, as I am now, a Research Analyst, when I'm not blogging or beating up big leather bags). And I was very anxious about the whole thing, convinced that the pregnancy would miscarry, or I would eat one bite of The Wrong Thing and permanently harm the child. So I piggybacked on Mama J.K.'s research and went to Dr. G.

Dr. G. was very well reputed among mamas and the birth community for his relatively low Caesarian rate, his openness to "alternative" practices such as natural childbirth, doulas, etc., and generally not being a pushy jerk. Luckily for me, he was also taking new patients, and my insurance. His practice was located right next to a hospital in a less glamorous part of town than that in which I lived (totally harmless, just cheaper and not all spangly new). He had privileges at one of the hospitals that would take my insurance, the  newer, nicer one with almost all single rooms (bonus!!!). I got an appointment fairly immediately, NOT because I was pregnant, but because I said that I needed a well-woman exam. The staff was not willing to book me for a pre-natal appointment because I was "only" four weeks pregnant. But once I got in there, two weeks later, Dr. G was very generous with his time, and even did an ultrasound even though technically I wasn't "supposed" to get one yet. He had an ultrasound machine right in one of his exam rooms, at which he seemed quite adept. (He got the sex of the baby wrong at 20 weeks, and the ultrasound tech who told me Jackie would be a girl scoffed that OB's don't know what they're doing with ultrasounds. But in terms of yup, that's a fetus, yup, that's a placenta, he did just fine.) Anyway he was able to show me the little, flickering grain of rice inside a thumb print, which would be Robert, inside his amniotic sac. "Oh, I'm going to cry!" I squealed. He looked mildly embarrassed, but said, "That's okay."

I received one prenatal visit per month until my third trimester, at which point they accelerated, I don't remember the exact schedule, I think twice in month seven, weekly after that, and twice weekly once the due date was nigh. (Due date. Tee hee!) The visits were something like 20 minutes long, and Dr. G was often running late but only actually cancelled when he was in the hospital with mamas. The staff continued to play roadblock between me and the doctor. It's difficult to know whether, when I called with questions, they were deflecting them on their own initiative or following his instructions. Sometimes a staff member called me back - she was often rather dismissive, seeming like I should know better than to call with this and that question, which irked me - how am I supposed to know what is a valid question? I'm an investment advisor, for Pete's sake. Sometimes the doctor called me back, and was much more patient with my questions. At least once, nobody called me back, not even the receptionist to say, "I relayed your concern to the doctor and he said not to worry." Again, I don't know whether this was a staff error or the doctor prioritizing his work.

Around month four (five?) I experienced what I thought might be leaking amniotic fluid. Of course I was freaked out. (I know now that pregnant women are just juicy, but again, how am I supposed to know?) After talking with the doctor on the phone, I was instructed to go in to Labor and Delivery at my designated hospital. My very patient carpool buddies/coworkers drove me to the hospital, which was about 2/3 of the way home on our 30-mile LA freeway commute (bleh). I went to admissions, and was sent to do all the admitting paperwork. This horrified me - if I was about to lose my protoperson, couldn't the freaking paperwork wait? It's not like I was going to run away, or could run anywhere, at all, at that point. Luckily the admissions clerk was a sweetheart. He had an accent, and when he asked my mother's maiden name, which of course a hospital needs in order to determine if a woman is leaking amniotic fluid, I said it and then started to spell it, but he interrupted me, "Oh, you're Italian!" Now he liked me even more, sweet little old fella. Even though I was crying through the whole thing. He probably wasn't allowed to just send me to L and D without the paperwork but come on, people, pregnant woman, freaked out and crying - let her go get some care for crying out loud.

Okay so finally I go to L and D. On the monitor, and thank Heaven, a very sensible nurse attending me. She took a big sniff of this suspicious emission and declared it not to be amniotic fluid. She said next time it happened, if I was brave enough to taste the fluid, I could tell myself, and described what it tasted like. I'm sure this is oogy enough for my readers already so the more squeamish should skip to the next paragraph, but she said it tastes like semen. I don't know if this is accurate, because with both kids by the time my water broke it was not necessary to try to determine if it was amniotic fluid, and even wacky crunchy mamas like me don't taste amniotic fluid just for kicks in the throes of labor. Anyway, I was, ultimately, fine, and sent home with orders to get more fluids and rest.

There were a couple more of these false alarm scares, mostly resulting in bedrest until you can get an appointment with the OB orders. I was mostly happy to comply, although I did sneak out to vote for the first African-American president in U.S. history. I had been voting at that spot for years, and this was the first time I had to wait in line. I had never seen that many citizens of color at that polling place before, and I was inspired. But I digress.

Regarding genetic testing, Dr. G just described what he would usually do, and let me decide. Since I was 35 (and bite me that is just not old, people) the standard of care is to do an amniocentesis. Wow, looks like I spelled that right on the first guess. Well, the heck if I was going to let anyone stick a huge needle in my belly and risk this kiddo for something that wasn't going to kill either of us. I told the doctor, look, the only way I will terminate this pregnancy is if my life is in danger. Is there anything you are going to learn from the amnio that you don't know now that would indicate that my life or fertility is at risk? No, he says. Is there anything you would learn that would change how you provide care for the rest of the pregnancy? No. Okay I'm not doing it. I went ahead with the "California genetic screening," a maternal blood draw and questionnaire, which said kiddo would be fine. Dr. G said he had seen one false negative off that screening in 16 years, which was good enough for me.

Dr. G was patient with my birth plan, and delighted to help me with my plans to bank cord blood (turns out he gets paid by the cryobank for each banking. Fine by me, I want the doctor to want to participate.) My "due date" comes and goes. (Funny story - eating brunch with friends on my "due date," young women at next table: "Oh, you're so cute!" "Thank you." "When are you due?" "Today." "WHAT! Why are you out to brunch?" "Because I'm hungry.") Now I'm three days "late" - which I would like to point out is within 2% of the average length of a pregnancy - who the heck thinks they can predict anything biological within 2%? Not me, thank you. I have another "what is this juicy stuff leaking out of me" moment, with no other symptoms of labor. I call in and am told to go to L and D. I was sure I wasn't in labor, but at this point I hadn't learned that as the patient, *I* am in charge, and I can say, "I don't want to go in, yet, let's wait a bit." I did have enough 'tude to take my time and eat lunch first, at least. I called my doula, Nancy (who also knew and respected Dr. G). and she told me to eat first, and to stay in touch. So we finally haul in to L and D, and I have an ultrasound. The tech said I had four units of amniotic fluid, and ten is the minimum. She also said it was all in his bladder, and if he peed I'd be fine. I know now that I had the right to say, great, let's wait an hour and do another ultrasound. But at the time I just trusted my medical professionals and played along.

Dr. G said I would not be leaving the hospital until I had the baby, and would likely need to be induced. I did not want to be induced. So I walked, and walked, and walked, and got thoroughly sick of walking. I had an enema (wheee!!!). The nurse heckled me a bit that I was being so high maintenance. "We only do this for very special patients, Suzanne." I got a vibe that the birth plan I handed them set off some "uh oh, one of THESE mamas" sort of alarm, but I was determined to be so sweet and wonderful that they would want to take great care of me. I'm good at that, and it worked. Eventually it became clear that I was not going to walk or poop myself into having contractions. Dr. G. and I talked on the phone, and he was recommending cervidil. This is like a tampon looking thing with synthetic prostaglandins on it, to soften the cervix. (Best prostaglandins in the world are free in hubby's semen. Who knows if we would have managed to have sex in the hospital. Suppose we could have snuck out to the car... anyway, I digress.) Dr. G. said if I wanted to sleep the night and use it in the morning he was fine with that, but that he was pretty sure it would be necessary. Knowing that, I was pretty sure I would not be able to sleep, and said, okay, just do it, but feed me first. The nurses were not thrilled with this idea - it seemed like they thought they would get in trouble, but they rounded up a sandwich for me (it was like 9 pm at this point).

My doula said I had to get rest once the cervidil was in. Well, I'm a chemically sensitive little creature, and four hours later I was at 4 cm dilated and the contractions were making me want to cry. So doula Nancy grabbed a quick shower and came in. Matt and I had few coping skills for contractions because the hospital birth class taught some useless breathing technique which irritated me so much to practice that I declared I would NOT do it during birth. Nancy showed up, asked me some questions, and said, "Let's get you in the shower." No birth tub in this hospital. Matt grabbed a few z's on the couch while Nancy fed me ice chips between contractions in the bathroom. At first the shower helped a lot, but then it didn't and I wanted out. Now the contractions are turning painful, and I'm having back labor. Real, natural labor with a well positioned baby doesn't hurt, I can now say from experience. Induced labor with baby sunny side up feels unholy, like being wrung out like a towel while something presses mercilessly on your spine. I tried squatting - felt best, but hard to maintain. We tried a squat bar in the bed. We tried standing, with Nancy doing counter-pressure on my back. We tried sitting in bed. Nothing felt good. Around dawn, Nancy said, "Oh, look at the sun." I said, "Fuck the sun." She looked at me with a sort of, "uh oh." expression. She started saying things like, "That contraction is done now, that's one more you don't have to do." She had helpful breathing and vocalizing suggestions, but this labor was beyond them, for me. She said something about the baby, and I heard a voice in my head say, "Fuck the baby."

SCREEEEEEE! All engines stop. I did NOT want this kid coming into the world to an angry mama. No matter what happened to me, it wasn't his fault, for crying out loud. "I want an epidural." I said to Matt. He looked worried. The nurses had asked a couple times, and I had said, "I don't want to make that decision right now." but now I said, "I'm going to be too exhausted to push." "Okay," he said. Smart man. We both really wanted a natural birth, and he probably though the was supposed to talk me out of it, but he also knows me pretty well, and knows that I would be really disappointed to make this decision, and wouldn't make it lightly. The nurses, meanwhile, were pretty relieved that I was being "sensible." Doula Nancy, I would learn later, felt guilty - I was suffering and she felt she should have seen that. I don't think that's fair on her, but anyway.

Well of course at this point anesthesiologist A has gone home and anesthesiologist B is stuck in LA traffic. WTH. Shouldn't a hospital not let A leave until B is on site? And of course then B has to attend a surgery. Stupid life threatening conditions. By the time Dr. B (not his initial, I can't remember anything about this guy except that I wanted to kiss him) arrives, I'm screaming during the contractions, which hurt worse than anything ever. He watches me do one contraction and says, "You waited too long." "I'm inclined to agree with you, doctor." "Here's the paperwork. The risks are that it won't work, that it will only work on one side, or that you'll get a really bad headache. But that's not going to happen to you." I have no idea if he knew I was a good candidate for an epidural or just says this to all the mamas, but it worked on me. I decided that I would believe him and that would make it work. It did work.

So to administer the epidural, mama has to be rounding her back to separate the vertebrae. Nurse Nancy, who wore the most elaborate eye makeup I have ever seen and very well, too, held me up while I held this position. I was seated at the edge of the bed with my arms around her shoulders, my forehead on her sternum, and my legs around her legs, like she was my teddy bear. She acted like this was the most unremarkable part of her day. God bless Nurse Nancy, she is an ANGEL. So first they shoot a local in your back. like you're at the dentist or need stitches. "This is going to burn," Nancy says. "Fine." "Okay, burning burning." "I don't feel it." "Wow, you're tough." "No, seriously, I don't feel it." My nervous system, in its infinite wisdom, decided that information was just not important and it would not relay it to my brain. So then in goes the shunt or whatever it's called for the epidural. I think maybe I kind of felt something weird or cold? Again, I just did not care. One more awful contraction. Then the next contraction was SO. EASY. This is the point at which I almost kissed Dr. Good Drugs. The relief was tangible. I had been suffering and scared and had no idea how I was going to get this baby out, and all of a sudden, I was totally fine. So then Dr. Good Drugs tapes the ever loving crap out of this epidural onto my back. "Hm. I think your skin is reacting to the adhesive. It's pretty red." "That's fine." "It's probably going to itch for a few days." "Really, That's fine." "Okay well don't get out of bed and I'll come check on you later."

So now doula Nancy and hubby are allowed back in and we're all instructed to sleep. HA! Are you kidding me? As Nancy observed, now that I wasn't suffering I wanted to process what I was going through. I couldn't have slept if they had whacked me up side the head with a brick. Which is not  the standard of care, anyway. I was reading the second Twilight book. Say what you will about cheesy teenaged vampire werewolf fiction, it's perfect for passing time while in labor. Meanwhile Matt and Nancy BOTH snored. I thought about kicking them out but I liked the company. Dr. Good Drugs came back to check on me. I told him my neck kept tensing up in a weird way. He explained that was "referred pain," that the contractions were being communicated to another part of my body so I would still know they were there. Bodies are fascinating.

I feel the need to stop at this point and insert a disclaimer. This is sounding a lot like The Case For Medicated Birth. It is NOT. I am so, so glad I was able to birth Jackie with no drugs. But what happened here, as I learned later, was that a medically unnecessary induction resulted in an unnecessarily difficult birth. Robert wasn't in position yet, my body wasn't ready to give birth yet, and that made the whole thing much, much harder and more uncomfortable than it should have been. Back labor SUCKS. BAD. So mamas, while I encourage you to educate yourself about birth and why hospitals have really messed it up, I will say, when there's a real medical reason for the interventions, they are a godsend.

Okay so back to the birth story. Other than a change in anesthesiologist to the tallest man I have seen in person, I can't remember much more of the sequence of events between the "sleeping" (ha) and the pushing. I know that there was a change in shift and our nurse left. I was so sad she didn't get to see the baby after all she had done for me. I asked who was coming on shift, and the answer was somebody, somebody else, and Joan. We had met Joan at a previous visit for one of the false alarms. "Oh, I hope we get Joan," I said. "Is that a Patient Request?" asked Nurse Nancy. "Uh, sure, why not?" I said. Again, in retrospect - this is weird. There has to be an Official Reason to let me  have who I want at my birth. After going through the midwife model of care with Jackie, this strikes me as bizarre. It's not open heart surgery, for heaven's sake. And nurses vary as much as any other part of the population in terms of likability and whether you want them around.

So Joan is awesome. At some point I start pushing, and Doula Nancy has me changing sides periodically. I'm allowed to lie on either side or my back. No squatting, no hands and knees, nothing helpful that would allow Robert to get out of sunny-side-up or at least ease the pressure on my spine a little bit. Now, given that my legs are fairly numb, I could see why they didn't want me going for a stroll. But hands and knees on the bed or squatting on the bed should have been fine - if I "fall," I'm just on my face on the bed. Nope. Hospital Policy. NowSuzi would say, "Allow me to demonstrate what the hospital can do with its policies." but thenSuzi was notably more obedient. (Chuckle.) And also scared that I would injure the baby somehow. (And as for that epidural shunt in my back, given how long it took them to un-tape it, it wasn't going ANYWHERE, no matter what position I was in.)

Pushing, counting, resting, on and on. For six hours. I'm pretty stinking tired by this point. Dr. G. has arrived, it's around 10 at night, and he looks pretty rough. This man was usually gentle, calm, and polite. He was cross and testy. I think he had been awake as long as I had. Now, I'm sympathetic to his plight. But I suspect it was part of the reason why I ended up with a surgical birth, and cutting a hole in my stomach so you can go to bed earlier is NOT acceptable. But there's no way to know that, now.

At some point the whole team shows up, baby nurse and some techs and bright lights and doctor, and I'm all excited, and then they go away, and I'm all disappointed. So Robert is, they tell me, stuck. I'm pushing and he comes out a bit more but when I relax he goes back in. Dr. G. takes Matt into the hall to tell him we might need to go with a c-section. (Because Matt's the one who's going to have a hole in his belly, right? No, because he's lobbying me. Why reason with an exhausted pregnant woman when you can just scare her husband?) (Okay clearly the whole objective retelling thing has failed. Raise your hand if you are surprised.) So Dr. G. comes back in and tells me I need to let him do a cesarean. Nurse Joan advocates for me: "But she's such a good pusher. Watch her do one push." So Dr. G. watches me push through the next contraction, and then says, "Yeah, no. You're going to rip your perineum and dislocate the baby's shoulders." Well obviously that scared me into allowing the surgical birth. In further discussions since, I realize there is absolutely no way for the doctor to know that those things would happen. They *could* happen. I also *could* have spontaneously combusted. The former is more likely than the latter, and that's about what we know.

Okay so they take Matt off to dress him in blue scrubs. Dr. Also Has Good Drugs cranks up the epidural to the point that they could have sawed off my leg. This causes me to shake and tremble, which doesn't hurt but bothers me - it felt out of control and scary. Dr. AHGD assures me that it's a normal side effect, and trying to stop it will just make it worse. I'm also freezing cold. So we're in the OR, and Matt and Dr. AHGD are up by my head, and there's a drape so I can't see my own innards. My arms are strapped down, which is weird, and I'm still cold and shaking. Dr. G. asks, "Can you feel that?" "Um, I'm not sure." "Well, it's pretty sharp. If you could feel it you would know." Next thing he says is, "Great abdominal muscle tone, Suzanne." "Oh, thanks." But then it strikes me that this is a little weird - he's actually looking at my abdominal muscle. It's sort of like, "Hey, cute liver," or something. It doesn't take long and he says, "Okay Dad, do you want to see your son?" Matt told me later he had a tunnel vision experience - he stood up just enough to see just the baby, managing to avoid seeing my innards, and then sat back down. I heard the baby cry, and I was soooo relieved. "Okay, everyone guess." And all the doctors and nurses start guessing how much Robert weighs. So this is like watercooler banter for them, while I'm strapped to a table with my belly open. Weird.

He had huge hands and feet, like me and my dad, and they were greyish (as most newborns' are) so they stood out even more. Before clearing Matt and Robert out to sew me up, they asked if I wanted to kiss the baby, which I did. Matt couldn't figure out how to get close enough to my face with the baby, so a nurse offered to help since she had more experience holding littles. I kissed Robert a bunch until she stepped back with him. I remember hearing them ask Matt if he wanted Robert wrapped up, and Matt saying, "Actually we're going to do skin-to-skin." Nancy had been to something like 350 births at this point and she said Matt was the second dad she saw doing skin to skin. Dad win for Matt.

The next thing I remember was Robert latching on to nurse. Which hurt. A nurse was trying to help us, but I was exhausted, Robert was tired from being born and all, and it didn't last long. They wheeled me (still lying on a sort of stretcher bed thing) into an elevator, got us up to the maternity ward, and then did a transfer by picking up the sheet I was lying on and lifting me onto the bed. Some nursing assistants cleaned up my lady parts with water and washcloths, and then we were left to sleep.

Robert was "rooming in," meaning he was in a hospital bassinet in my room. We had wrong information about cosleeping being dangerous, and also I was so tired from the birth experience that it actually would not have been a good idea at that moment. So every time he needed to nurse, someone had to hand him to me (I still had a catheter in and wasn't allowed to get out of bed yet), and Matt was doing all the diapers, with nurses showing him the ropes. I remember at one point Robert cried for food at like 2am and I was so tired I said, "let's just give him formula and sleep through this one." And then I heard those words I had said and woke up the rest of the way and said, "I feel guilty just saying that. Give him to me." After I nursed Robert, Matt wanted to put him back in the bassinet immediately, so I wouldn't fall asleep holding the baby. I instituted a rule that I got to cuddle Robert for five minutes after nursing, as my reward for putting up with the pain of nursing. (We had bad latches and yeast. Nursing does not have to hurt, mamas!) When I look back at this now, it seems barbaric. Babies belong on their mamas, and I knew that in my heart but I didn't know how to make that happen, safely, in a hospital, while exhausted, with neither parent having much idea what they were doing.

We had a reasonable share of help and attention from the nurses, but only a couple of them had any breastfeeding training. Several of them were pushing formula to one degree or another, expressing concern that he hadn't peed yet or over how much output we were getting from the pump we had been talked into using. I can't remember why, I think just to "help my milk come in," which at like 24 hours past a surgical birth is silly. There was a lactation consultant who worked a sort of standard 9-5 shift, and I had a number to call her at, but of course she would be busy with another mom when Robert wanted to nurse and it was therefore a good time to teach me latching.

After the catheter was removed and I was allowed to walk again, I was encouraged to exercise by walking around the ward. So we would take Robert's bassinet for a stroll. On one of these strolls I witnessed a formula saleswoman (who looked for all the world exactly like a pharmaceutical sales rep) talking to the nurses at the front desk of the ward. "Okay, and you know that Brandy Brand is the official brand for any WIC moms in your hospital, right?" AAAARRRGH! No, by the way, I did not see any breast pump reps or breastfeeding product reps, of course.

The pain was pretty bad the first day, but Advil took good care of it. When I had to sneeze or cough, that hurt rather a lot at the site of the wound. A nurse suggested that I press a pillow against the area and go ahead with real coughing, because if I didn't cough properly I might get pneumonia. She was weird. She wouldn't leave my Advil with Matt while I was in the bathroom because she had worked in psych wards where people tried to hoard their meds. Um. I'm not going to not take my pain meds, and for Pete's sake it's Advil. If I want to hoard it, I can go to the drug store... but the pillow trick helped.

When the Advil started to wear off, it would hurt pretty bad. The nurses wouldn't give me more 15 minutes earlier than the doctor's instructions, but they kept offering me narcotics. "I don't want dope, the Advil is fine, it's just wearing off." "Nope, have to wait." Yeah, that makes sense. Ladies? If you're going to give birth in a hospital, put a bottle of Advil in your bag. Oh and when the doctor did see me and I told him this, he just upped the dose of Advil so I could have more when I wanted it. I realize that the nurses aren't empowered to do that and they would risk their jobs by medicating me against the written instruction. But to me that says the system is dumb - they're allowed to give me a controlled substance but they could get fired for giving me an over-the-counter painkiller 15 minutes sooner.

When we were discharged, I was put in a wheelchair and wheeled to the discharge desk. Never mind that I had been walking around the ward, if I want to get from A to B outside the maternity ward, Hospital Policy says I have to be in a wheelchair. A maternity ward nurse makes sure we have a proper car seat and that we put the baby in it, and we are sent on our way.

After the surgical birth, I was instructed not to lift anything heavier than the baby, and not to drive. I was not to go out except to go see my OB. I became concerned that my uterus had prolapsed (it hadn't), and was having a really hard time with breastfeeding. I had cracked and bleeding nipples, and at one point it hurt so much to nurse on my left side that I was pumping exclusively on that side. Doula Nancy came over to check on us and help me work on my latch, which helped, but it still hurt, so I asked for a lactation consultant recommendation. I got an appointment to see her in a day or so, and she made some suggestions for the mean time. When we saw her, she immediately diagnosed the yeast infection on my nipples. Any time you have surgery they load you up with antibiotics (which makes good sense if you think about it) and I have always been prone to yeast, so we were doomed on that front.

I could go on and on about our breastfeeding struggles, but we have covered much of that material in earlier posts on this blog, and really my point here is the after care, for purpose of comparison to my second experience. The aftercare experience from the OB model is very "you're on your own!" It seemed to me like the staff at Dr. G.'s office became even less responsive to my freaked out questions, but post partum anxiety is probably coloring my memory.

Dr. G. told me I was okay to try for a VBAC on any subsequent pregnancies, but that probably it was just the shape of my pelvis that had prevented a vaginal birth, and it wouldn't work. "But you can try." (Turns out this is also nonsense.) As time went on I had ongoing pain, albeit mild, at the site of the surgery. The pain rated a 2 on that 1-10 scale, I told a friend, but the pangs of grief from how the birth went were more like an 8. I didn't understand why it had upset me so much - I hadn't done anything wrong, Robert was fine, and I would be fine to have another kid by the time I wanted one. Eventually I realized that there are very deeply programmed, natural processes in birth that were interrupted, unnecessarily, in this birth. Having learned through my experience with Jackie how it can go when it is handled well (assuming everyone is healthy and there are no serious complications), I see now that obstetricians are just trained in a manner that is going to utterly prevent the possibility of normal birth in many cases. They don't get the chance to let birth progress naturally. They are taught to view every event as a Possible Disaster, and of course as caregivers they want to prevent that disaster. They have to pay absurdly large malpractice insurance premiums, and regardless of how altruistic they may be, this is going to engender a cross incentive to make the most out of each patient that they can, either by spending less time with her or by charging more for their services - and you can charge the heck of a lot more for surgery than for walking in and catching a baby at the end.

I am not angry at Dr. G. I'm not happy with how things turned out, but I see that he really did what he thought was best. He was wrong, in my opinion, but he came by it honestly. And I'm grateful for my beautiful Robert, that there were no serious complications from the epidural or the surgery, and that now I am in a position to serve as both a VBAC victory story and as an informed consumer offering a comparison of the two models of care. Which I will do via my snazzy chart in another post. This one is long enough.

One last disclaimer - this is my story of one birth. Each mama must decide the right thing to do for herself and her baby.

Much love,
Suzi

What Do I Need to Get Ready for My Baby?

Hello Dear Readers!

I hope your 2013 is off to a great start. I made a dedication instead of resolutions. Here it is:

More veggies
More patience
More breathing
More fun
More peace
And all the snuggles I can get away with.

So far I'm doing pretty well except maybe for that second line... ah well. More breathing.

So my hair stylist is pregnant - yay! And like many expectant mamas, she is asking what she can do to prepare for birth, for motherhood, for breastfeeding. I get this question a lot. I remember thinking getting ready for Robert was essentially a shopping list. Which, forgive me, is very Southern California. Well, to be fair, it's very yuppie America. But if I could go back and whisper in newly pregnant Suzi's ear, I would say:

Less stuff. More help.

Seriously people told me, and I totally did not believe them, that you need no actual objects for a baby. The more reasonable ones admitted you need diapers and a car seat. But other than that, almost everything is optional, or can be improvised, or borrowed, or will be given to you as a gift. I think we have bought one garment for Jackie, and she's 16 months old. What I REALLY could have used was more carry-out dinners, more grocery delivery, more house cleaning, more hold the baby so I can catch a shower or a nap (that's a post-partum doula you want for that last one). More massage, more therapy, more reassurance. A good network of friends and family can provide a lot of it. But let's face it, people are busy, people are spread out, and family, loving though they may be, do not always add more help than stress. So here is my shopping list for what you will need after the baby comes:

• Diapers. I like cloth, but use spozies (disposables) at night and for travel. I am not going to judge you for filling up a landfill if the idea of washing diapers makes you want to cry, although it was easier than I feared, and there are cool trials like this one at Jillian's drawers. Some mamas get oddly obsessive about cloth diapering. I can't understand caring so deeply about that end, but clearly I am obsessed with the other end. Whatevs. Just keep in mind, it's just poop, it washes out, and really you are about to be more intimately familiar with another person's elimination than you ever dreamed. Message me to complain any time. I'm here for you. I will say, if you go spozies, please consider chlorine free. Chlorine is nasty stuff, and your baby's reproductive organs are right there. You may have noticed.
• Car Seat, visit with CPST to learn how to use it right. Seriously I don't care what a genius you are and how carefully you read the manuals to your car seat and your car. Work with one of these people. Some shocking number like 95% of car seats are being used incorrectly. Make your partner attend the session, and anyone else you are going to let drive your baby around. Modern car seats are amazing and can save lives and spines and stuff. I'm babbling. But seriously, do it. Do it now.
• Lactation consultant. Meet her, make sure she seems reasonable and sympathetic. You want a very well trained (IBCLC) cheer leader who is on your side. Notice I didn't say on your baby's side. You and your baby are on the same side, and sometimes that doesn't look quite like we imagined. It's important to feel encouraged and supported and maybe even pushed but not judged.
• Birth Doula. I forgot this in the original draft of this post. How could I forget the birth doula? Good gravy. I have it in mind to craft a birth-specific post with much more detail, but let me say, having a doula in attendance at Robert's birth was a HUGE HELP. I have never heard a mama say she regretted a penny spent on a birth doula. (In retrospect, with three midwives, I probably didn't need one for Jackie's birth, but I loved having her there.) Birth is very intense, and probably totally unfamiliar to you. Having someone who knows a lot about it and is totally on your side no matter what is a lifesaver. Birth doulas are associated with faster, easier labors, fewer surgical births, fewer complications, and less wigged out partners. My second doula has a pretty funny story about a fifth baby being born in the car and the husband being totally freaked out.
• Post-partum doula(s) - note some of these superheros will WORK NIGHTS. Imagine a trained professional who loves babies spending the night at your home, diapering your baby, helping you latch and breastfeed, and baking in your kitchen for you. It is SHEER GENIUS.
• Babymeal/help schedule. Have your BFF do this for you. S/he will email the list you give them, and use a service like google calendars or babymeal or something (I can't remember, google it) to make sure that folks sign up to bring you dinner, maybe do the dishes, play with your older kiddos or take the dog for a walk.
• House cleaning service. Maybe just for three months, maybe forever, or increase the frequency of a service you are already using. I would do at least every two weeks.
• A will and life insurance. This was my nesting instinct. If the big God Forbid hits, our kids are SET. Although I will say that getting life insurance while pregnant is a little tricky, it's doable. "But I'm not gonna die." Yeah, you are. Hopefully not soon. But anyone can wander in front of a stampeding rhinoceros, and you don't want your little blessing paying the price for your delusions of immortality.
• Babycarrier. I love these things. I have something absurd like four, and if you count all the ones that I have tried (borrowed, resold, etc) it gets up towards a dozen. That's silly. But check them out, they are awesome. So snuggly. Help the kid nap while you can get up and make yourself a cup of tea (presuming your partner is in the shower, otherwise s/he should be making your tea. Or the pp Doula. Whatever.)
• Stack of books, a kindle, and/or a subscription to Netflix or Amazon Prime. You're going to be awake at weird times. It's best to try to rest but if you can't or baby won't let you, occupy your mind so you aren't just thinking about the fact that it is a bummer that you are awake at 2 a.m. Also NPR was most of my adult company sometimes. I listened to a Canadian news show in the shower at 11pm a lot for some reason.
• A bit of 'tude: Get ready to tell people to bugger off. Or more politely, thank you for your opinion. Or my catch line, "I am the mama. My word is law." But your instincts are amazingly informative, and lots of well meaning people may question them. Just because it's your mother-in-law or pediatrician or pastor does NOT mean they are right. Particularly about breastfeeding.
• Reality check. You are not going to learn a new language and redecorate your house on your maternity leave. Stop it. Your job is to rest, heal, get to know your little miracle, and learn to breastfeed. That's IT. EVERYTHING else is someone else's job. Cooking, cleaning, managing visitors. Everything. Partner can't cook? Partner's job is to coordinate deliveries, get every takeout menu for a mile radius, find people who want to help you cook. Partner's other job is to help you breastfeed. Diaper baby so you can stay in bed. Bring you a glass of water and a snack. (Although I am a huge fan of putting a big water bottle and a banana next to the bedside so I'm ready to go, but who knows, maybe you'll have a hankering for a granola bar at 3am while junior is slurping away.) This is a once in a lifetime (your baby's lifetime!) opportunity to rest, bond, heal, and fall in love. Don't mess it up for yourself by feeling guilty that baby's clothes aren't neatly folded and organized or that your hair is not beautifully coiffed. And don't stress about how long it takes to lose the pregnancy weight. Might be a year, might be eight weeks. Just keep nursing and add back some gentle exercise as soon as you can. Eat well and healthfully and remember biology is smart and that weight is there for a reason (so you can turn it into breastmilk!)
• Extra credit: Cord Blood Banking. I very very very much believe in banking your baby's umbilical cord blood and tissue. Especially since one of my favorite people's first born came down with baby cancer (seriously what force is more evil in the world than cancer that is specific to babies?) that could have been treated with stem cells. (The baby is fine, by the way, he's pushing five years old and he's turning out like you'd expect coming from his brilliant, feisty parents. Meaning, awesome.) This is not a cheap option. To me, it was worth it. I figured if we needed them we would gladly bankrupt ourselves to get them, so let's save them now when it's merely spendy. But easy for me to say, we're relatively well off and terrible at budgeting. That said, please consider it. If you decide you really don't want to spend the money or can't, you can still donate the cord blood and cord tissue to research or for people looking for donors to treat an illness. It's a once in a lifetime opportunity to painlessly and non-controversially harvest the most amazing cells that can seemingly do anything. Please consider it. We did it with both kiddos (and yes, supercrunchy parents, Jackie's midwife let the cord stop pulsing first and we still got a great collection.)

Hey, Suzi, you forgot these things:

• Crib: No I didn't. Totally optional. I wish I'd never wasted the effort. Robert wouldn't sleep in his, for eight months he would only sleep in his car seat. I was freaked out and asked the pediatrician about it. He said, "Huh." I said, "Is that a problem?" "Well, you're going to have a problem when he outgrows the car seat." So yeah. Crib was like a staging area for laundry. I will say, though, that a pack-n-play can make a handy safe place to stash the kiddo so you can pee with both hands free. And then with Jackie, we bedshared. WOW. HUGE difference in tired level. As in, I was WAY less exhausted. I so, so, so wish we had not had bad information about bedsharing when Robert was born. It's miraculous. Here's some information about it. There's lots of IF YOU BED SHARE YOU WILL SQUISH YOUR BABY BULLSHIT out there. That's true, if you are drunk off your ass or on a squishy couch. Educate yourself and make up your mind with that information. And BTW, that whole, if we bed share I'll destroy my intimate relationship with my partner nonsense? Is nonsense. First off, you don't get to have sex for a while. Second, you probably won't want to for a while after that. And third, if you and your baby are well rested, you're more likely to have energy to get amorous. 
• Jungle-theme layette with matching crib sheets, mobile, rug, diaper bag, and coasters. Just unnecessary. If having cute stuff like this makes you happy and you have the cash or your friends and family want to buy it for you, go nuts. But I say save the money to hire help. This stuff gets outgrown in ten minutes, and pooped on, and etc. Hand-me-downs, Craig's list, gifts, etc. work great, you can still have cute, fun stuff, and your dollars can go where they will make a more lasting difference in your warm memories of dreamy new baby love. You do need a diaper bag. But an old backpack will do fine, if you don't want to get a new one.
• Sleep trainer. Sleep training is nonsense. I realize that is a controversial statement. But seriously sleep is very kiddo specific, it is a moving target, and your baby's appetite and sleep patterns will move faster than a Brownian particle for possibly up to TWO YEARS. or more. The idea that a four month old should be able to sleep through the night alone in a crib has no basis in biology or medicine. If you're too tired to deal you need help with the work in your life, not a sleep trainer. You will both get more rest if you breastfeed on early hunger cues, sleep when the baby sleeps regardless of daylight, and ask for more help. People set mamas up for huge dissatisfaction with their baseless assertions that their babies shouldn't make a peep for eight hours straight at four months of life. More likely they will go through a growth spurt and want to eat all night. Denying them food at that time can impede their growth and will make you absolutely miserable, NOT more well rested. Also newborns are nocturnal. Just go with it. I promise it's easier this way.
• Stroller. I love my strollers. But if you turn into a big babywearer you don't really need one. My favorite ones are the ones that you can snap the car seat into and out of. That way if baby falls asleep in the car you don't have to wake baby to go into the grocery store. DO NOT BALANCE THE CAR SEAT ON THE GROCERY CART. We LOSE babies this way. If you don't have the stroller and baby is sleeping, put the car seat in the cargo area of the cart, so it can't tip. You can pack an impressive amount of groceries around the car seat (we know from first hand experience) and you get cute comments like "what aisle are those on?"
• Nursing bras/clothes. I love these and have a gazillion of them. But you can fake it with camisoles and layering.

Now here's the Learn list:

• Childbirth class: I love love loved hypnobirthing. Hypnosis is basically really deep meditation, so let go of those weird ideas of being brainwashed into clucking like a chicken. But there are a lot of great classes out there. Know where there are NOT a lot of great classes? At hospitals. They're all this goofy hybrid of stuff that might work with what the hospital's insurance folks will let them say. I'm open to hearing a counter example but I suggest finding an independent practitioner (midwife, doula, etc.) teaching a class.
• Prenatal Breastfeeding Class: So, this is very important, but it will NOT really help you latch, I think. It's just hard to learn to latch without a baby. So don't get frustrated when baby shows up if you still need coaching on latching. What it WILL do is prepare you for how breastfeeding works and all the "booby traps" out there that undermine women in their efforts to breastfeed. The most shocking one is highly trained medical professionals. They are NOT trained in breastfeeding. Which is appalling. But you and your partners can prepare yourselves to face the booby traps with information and confidence and stand up to the well meaning, ill informed doctors and nurses who may try to tell you that you have to supplement because your breasts aren't like a faucet ten minutes after the placenta comes out.
• CPR with Child and Infant CPR: Hopefully you will never need to use your CPR skills. But I can almost guarantee you that you will need the choking rescue skills. I think I've done choking rescue on Jackie 8 times. Having the proper training helps you to stay calm and do the right thing faster, which makes it easier on everyone.

And lastly, books. There are too many. I'm not going to go into them all. I will say that it's important to remember that any idiot who can type 300 pages can get a book published (okay, okay, professional writers, I know it's not always that easy). There is no requirement that the information be correct, helpful, or even interesting to get it published. So if something strikes you as nonsense, for pete's sake don't waste more time on it. A couple of favorite breastfeeding books are "The Nursing Mother's Companion" and "Mother Food." Worth a peek. Also not books but very helpful are Best for Babes and Kellymom's websites. Oh and Dr. Jack Newman. The only man I trust on breastfeeding. I feel strongly that it's hard to be worth listening to if you haven't done it yourself. But this guy is an exception.

But there is one I feel very strongly about. Remember Robert's was an over-medicalized birth that turned surgical, and Jackie was a VBAC (Vaginal Birth After Cesarean) in a birth center with midwives. So I know of what I speak. Read this book: Ina Mae's Guide to Childbirth. Make your partner read it. I told Matt if he didn't read the entire chapter on "Sphincter Law" he couldn't come to the birth. (He read it promptly.) Seriously this was such a forehead slapping aha moment for me, it was life changing.

And of course you need a copy of Goodnight Moon. Go board book version, it'll last longer. Trust me.

This is the biggest adventure of your life. I can't think of anything more rewarding, miraculous, humbling, amazing, and worth while. Try to relax and enjoy.

Much love,

Suzi