8 pounds, 20 inches long; fuzzy, downy hair; caramel-colored, like Gianna's; Vincent John entered this world early in the morning on April 8. Even though Dr. Older Guy had ordered an OR team to assemble upstairs, I blasted through the apparent conventions of that hospital and successfully VBAC'ed my baby! Even though the doc seemed nervous and tense about the whole deal, he did crack a smile and say, "You've single-handedly altered (and then aside to a nurse, 'Or created,') the VBAC statistics of this hospital."
He wasn't kidding- The only other mama and baby pair in the birthing area when I was admitted was a planned induction. Later, that mom and I were moved upstairs to make way for two more planned inductions, and a planned Cesarean section.
I have so, so many thoughts and ruminations and deep ponderings, with regards to this birth and the hospital and birth in general. For now, though, I'm enjoying the newborn, otherworldliness of my wrinkly, curled-up little bug. And am in awe over the whole new family we have- I have a son! A girl and a boy. How very "dollhouse" of us, no?
Monday, April 19, 2010
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
You May Ask Yourself- Well How Did I Get Here?
On a walk last night, I "saw" a young couple, with their year-old puppy, walking in front of me- the wife was heavily pregnant, and they were talking excitedly about the baby that would be coming. Who would this baby be? Is it a boy or a girl? What would this new little person bring to their lives?
Okay, I hallucinated a bit. I think it was the extreme deja-vous I was experiencing, due to the unnaturally high temps on a mid-March evening in Metro-Detroit, Michigan. It could almost have been June of 2007 again. Only this time, it was Mr. Clarateaches, a now nearly four-year old Dogasus, and an adorable, perky little girl who will be three years old this summer, along for the walk in her wagon. Just 25 days away from my "Guess Date," I found myself walking in my own footsteps of almost three years ago, thinking similar thoughts. Who is this individual I am carrying? Is this the little sister, or the little brother of my sweet baby girl? What will they bring to our group? What will change?
Life, of course, being what it has been for a little more than the last year (oh what the heck, a little more than two and a half years), has jaded some of the view. I know now what labor feels like, and I also know what it feels like when all the best laid plans fall horrifyingly to the ground and go up in flames. I know what the insanity of cognitive dissonance feels like when you simultaneously feel so fulfilled and complete while looking at the tiny baby in your arms, and at the same time feel like you don't know whose body this is, but it surely can't be yours, because your body just doesn't fail. I know the mind-numbing, head-banging-on-a-wall experience of battling hospital staff for the most basic of choices. I know the strange, "beyond the looking glass," "I am now blank and separate forever" sinkhole of post-partum depression. The repeated rise and fall of hope as I twice hold a positive pregnancy test in my hands, and follow it twelve weeks later with a tiny shell of a baby who is no longer earth-bound.
I also know the exhausting, exhilarating, boundless love of a small child who shares some of my genes, with some of the genes of the love of my life. I'm sure that she's just about as close to perfection as we will ever achieve. I know that the same little person who stretches me, as a mother, to the point where I think I can never be this tired or frustrated again, is also the same little person who amazes me with her capacity to learn and to come to her own conclusions, and be her own person. How could I be so lucky?
In approximately a month or less, my questions will be answered. The morbid ones, and the mundane- will this baby live? Will I actually have a living baby at the end of this? How will this baby arrive- will my body fail me again, or will my labor be hellaciously wonderful and result in a victorious VBAC? Who IS this little one, who, as I type, is bumping little limbs out at me, and waving around what is probably a little rear-end? Will Gianna have a little sister, or brother- is it going to be a new experience of what we already know, or will we embark on a new adventure, that of raising a little boy? How will I come out, on the other side of this? How will we all sort out the change from a family of three (plus dog) to a family of four (plus dog)?
Okay, I hallucinated a bit. I think it was the extreme deja-vous I was experiencing, due to the unnaturally high temps on a mid-March evening in Metro-Detroit, Michigan. It could almost have been June of 2007 again. Only this time, it was Mr. Clarateaches, a now nearly four-year old Dogasus, and an adorable, perky little girl who will be three years old this summer, along for the walk in her wagon. Just 25 days away from my "Guess Date," I found myself walking in my own footsteps of almost three years ago, thinking similar thoughts. Who is this individual I am carrying? Is this the little sister, or the little brother of my sweet baby girl? What will they bring to our group? What will change?
Life, of course, being what it has been for a little more than the last year (oh what the heck, a little more than two and a half years), has jaded some of the view. I know now what labor feels like, and I also know what it feels like when all the best laid plans fall horrifyingly to the ground and go up in flames. I know what the insanity of cognitive dissonance feels like when you simultaneously feel so fulfilled and complete while looking at the tiny baby in your arms, and at the same time feel like you don't know whose body this is, but it surely can't be yours, because your body just doesn't fail. I know the mind-numbing, head-banging-on-a-wall experience of battling hospital staff for the most basic of choices. I know the strange, "beyond the looking glass," "I am now blank and separate forever" sinkhole of post-partum depression. The repeated rise and fall of hope as I twice hold a positive pregnancy test in my hands, and follow it twelve weeks later with a tiny shell of a baby who is no longer earth-bound.
I also know the exhausting, exhilarating, boundless love of a small child who shares some of my genes, with some of the genes of the love of my life. I'm sure that she's just about as close to perfection as we will ever achieve. I know that the same little person who stretches me, as a mother, to the point where I think I can never be this tired or frustrated again, is also the same little person who amazes me with her capacity to learn and to come to her own conclusions, and be her own person. How could I be so lucky?
In approximately a month or less, my questions will be answered. The morbid ones, and the mundane- will this baby live? Will I actually have a living baby at the end of this? How will this baby arrive- will my body fail me again, or will my labor be hellaciously wonderful and result in a victorious VBAC? Who IS this little one, who, as I type, is bumping little limbs out at me, and waving around what is probably a little rear-end? Will Gianna have a little sister, or brother- is it going to be a new experience of what we already know, or will we embark on a new adventure, that of raising a little boy? How will I come out, on the other side of this? How will we all sort out the change from a family of three (plus dog) to a family of four (plus dog)?
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
I Would Be Remiss...
WARNING: What follows is pretty blunt and ugly.
... if I didn't at least briefly mention the horrible Schatz case, wherein a 7 year old Northern CA girl named Lydia (originally from Liberia, adopted by the Schatz family along with two other Liberian children) was beaten to death over the course of many hours by her adoptive parents. With a length of 1/4 inch "plumbers line."
For mispronouncing a word, according to her "parents," the ones who beat her until her spirit quite literally left her body.
Her eleven year old sister, also adopted and from Liberia, was beaten to the brink of death, but was hospitalized until her liver stopped trying to shut down. A biological child of the Schatz', a ten year old boy, was also discovered to have bruising on his body.
So, from what kind of freak-a-zoid source would this self-proclaimed "evangelical family" ever get the idea to use a length of plastic tubing, usually used inside of a toilet, for beating their children? Why, from Michael and Debi Pearl's fractured Bible Tales, of course! Michael and Debi Pearl, of the Sean Paddock infamy; Michael and Debi Pearl, who somehow believe that one can achieve sinlessness and perfection right here on earth; Michael and Debi Pearl, who believe that only the husband of the family is sanctified through Christ's death, and that his wife is only sanctified through him.
Well, okay then, some might say- only a few really uber-fundie Christian cult members would fall in line with this sort of thinking. Only a few quacks would really use this, right? Not so much, unfortunately. The Pearls offer a quick fix, guaranteed to make your children achieve salvation, and force your home into perfect harmony. Who can resist? Your house is calm and orderly, your children follow your every command (CHEERFULLY!), Mom's soft-spoken and CHEERFUL, and Dad- well, according to the Pearls, it doesn't matter which of the three entities of God he is (the "commanding" Father God, the "dreamy" Holy Spirit, or the "merciful" Christ), he is just plain God to that house. I'll let others do the citation from their Child and Wife Abuse Manuals, respectively, as I refuse to link them to my blog. For more links, if your stomach can handle it, especially to the Pearl's website, check out the website, "Why Not Train A Child?" I want to strongly caution Christian readers especially- when I first started reading into these people about two years ago (during the time that the Paddock trial was still going on, and North Carolina was attempting-unsuccessfully- to indict them for an aspect of his death), I came away feeling very spiritually violated. My interactions with others, even my own husband, was very negatively affected by the experience of reading chapters of their book, "To Train Up A Child," and I had a very visceral reaction to such severe blasphemy and heresy. To be perfectly honest, I was literally tainted by what I feel to be the work of two people who are being operated as tools by Satan himself. This is no ordinary demonic possession within these "two old country folks," this is the handwriting of the Old Scratch himself. If you are a Christian and you take on the task of reading this pile of lies, surround yourself with spiritual people who can pull you from the brink, if it comes down to that. And so there- I've laid it on the line that I may be a little overly "religious," or a little over-concerned with the spiritual realm, but there it is. Consider yourself warned.
So many others have blogged about the insidiousness of this "ministry's" message, and how parents have been swept away by this. Because God knows, (and I'm talking the real God, not the Freaky God that the Pearls seem to worship) that no parent in their right mind would decide that they want to go with a program that beats kids to within an inch of their lives (if they're "lucky." And I would argue that poor Lydia is far better off having not survived such a horrific experience.) And others have blogged about the extreme contrariness this "ministry's" message has toward actual Scripture and fundamental Christian belief. A fairly comprehensive list of all of those bloggers, from Tulip Girl to Beauty For Ashes, can be found at the blog Roscommon Acres. Whether you are a Christian or not, it's well worth checking these out, as it seems to be (oh I hope, I hope, I hope...) the beginnings of the Christian body as a whole deciding that it's time to quit calling this "the extreme," and to start taking a stand and saying that the whole thing is evil.
There is not a whole lot I can add to the outcry, aside from my own cries that this IS NOT CHRISTIANITY. I will share a little bit of my own "joy," that completely fills our home on a daily basis, without the application of any sort of physical implements or withholding of love or any sort of shaming or screaming. And a possible look at what Mr Clarateaches and I would completely miss out on, if we decided that we needed to physically harm our child to make her do whatever is convenient to the adults:
While shrieking, the other evening, in the midst of the angst of "the witching hour" (the hour or so before dinner when everyone from newborns to probably centurions tends to fall apart a little) while I was changing Gianna's diaper, I reminded her that I can only help her out if she tells me what she wants- otherwise, I have to make the very best decision for her- in this case, finishing with the diaper and going back downstairs. She responded with a shriek. I told her that I would help her out by finishing her diaper, to which she immediately responded, in a totally rational voice, "Mommy, I only want you to be happy!" (To which I replied, obviously, that I am happy no matter what she does! My adult emotions do not start and stop with her actions, and I want her to be well aware of that.) But ponder for a moment, if I would have applied the Pearl methods of going ahead and "switching" her until she was cheerful? For one thing, I would have switched my arm off, because I don't know anyone who responds to physical pain with "cheerfulness." For another- I would have missed what was arguably the cutest and silliest thing she said that day.
And I could probably go on and on, and describe many more adorable interactions with the little Gianna-bee, and describe how proactive, "Get Off (My) Butt Parenting," style responses have somehow managed to create a peaceful and happy and intelligent little girl. I have to wonder what Sean, Lydia, and possibly many other un-recognized Pearl victims would be like, had they not only lived, but had been parented consistently, gently, gracefully, and positively. Lydia may have mispronounced words, but she would have been reading. Joyfully, no doubt. God rest her sweet soul.
... if I didn't at least briefly mention the horrible Schatz case, wherein a 7 year old Northern CA girl named Lydia (originally from Liberia, adopted by the Schatz family along with two other Liberian children) was beaten to death over the course of many hours by her adoptive parents. With a length of 1/4 inch "plumbers line."
For mispronouncing a word, according to her "parents," the ones who beat her until her spirit quite literally left her body.
Her eleven year old sister, also adopted and from Liberia, was beaten to the brink of death, but was hospitalized until her liver stopped trying to shut down. A biological child of the Schatz', a ten year old boy, was also discovered to have bruising on his body.
So, from what kind of freak-a-zoid source would this self-proclaimed "evangelical family" ever get the idea to use a length of plastic tubing, usually used inside of a toilet, for beating their children? Why, from Michael and Debi Pearl's fractured Bible Tales, of course! Michael and Debi Pearl, of the Sean Paddock infamy; Michael and Debi Pearl, who somehow believe that one can achieve sinlessness and perfection right here on earth; Michael and Debi Pearl, who believe that only the husband of the family is sanctified through Christ's death, and that his wife is only sanctified through him.
Well, okay then, some might say- only a few really uber-fundie Christian cult members would fall in line with this sort of thinking. Only a few quacks would really use this, right? Not so much, unfortunately. The Pearls offer a quick fix, guaranteed to make your children achieve salvation, and force your home into perfect harmony. Who can resist? Your house is calm and orderly, your children follow your every command (CHEERFULLY!), Mom's soft-spoken and CHEERFUL, and Dad- well, according to the Pearls, it doesn't matter which of the three entities of God he is (the "commanding" Father God, the "dreamy" Holy Spirit, or the "merciful" Christ), he is just plain God to that house. I'll let others do the citation from their Child and Wife Abuse Manuals, respectively, as I refuse to link them to my blog. For more links, if your stomach can handle it, especially to the Pearl's website, check out the website, "Why Not Train A Child?" I want to strongly caution Christian readers especially- when I first started reading into these people about two years ago (during the time that the Paddock trial was still going on, and North Carolina was attempting-unsuccessfully- to indict them for an aspect of his death), I came away feeling very spiritually violated. My interactions with others, even my own husband, was very negatively affected by the experience of reading chapters of their book, "To Train Up A Child," and I had a very visceral reaction to such severe blasphemy and heresy. To be perfectly honest, I was literally tainted by what I feel to be the work of two people who are being operated as tools by Satan himself. This is no ordinary demonic possession within these "two old country folks," this is the handwriting of the Old Scratch himself. If you are a Christian and you take on the task of reading this pile of lies, surround yourself with spiritual people who can pull you from the brink, if it comes down to that. And so there- I've laid it on the line that I may be a little overly "religious," or a little over-concerned with the spiritual realm, but there it is. Consider yourself warned.
So many others have blogged about the insidiousness of this "ministry's" message, and how parents have been swept away by this. Because God knows, (and I'm talking the real God, not the Freaky God that the Pearls seem to worship) that no parent in their right mind would decide that they want to go with a program that beats kids to within an inch of their lives (if they're "lucky." And I would argue that poor Lydia is far better off having not survived such a horrific experience.) And others have blogged about the extreme contrariness this "ministry's" message has toward actual Scripture and fundamental Christian belief. A fairly comprehensive list of all of those bloggers, from Tulip Girl to Beauty For Ashes, can be found at the blog Roscommon Acres. Whether you are a Christian or not, it's well worth checking these out, as it seems to be (oh I hope, I hope, I hope...) the beginnings of the Christian body as a whole deciding that it's time to quit calling this "the extreme," and to start taking a stand and saying that the whole thing is evil.
There is not a whole lot I can add to the outcry, aside from my own cries that this IS NOT CHRISTIANITY. I will share a little bit of my own "joy," that completely fills our home on a daily basis, without the application of any sort of physical implements or withholding of love or any sort of shaming or screaming. And a possible look at what Mr Clarateaches and I would completely miss out on, if we decided that we needed to physically harm our child to make her do whatever is convenient to the adults:
While shrieking, the other evening, in the midst of the angst of "the witching hour" (the hour or so before dinner when everyone from newborns to probably centurions tends to fall apart a little) while I was changing Gianna's diaper, I reminded her that I can only help her out if she tells me what she wants- otherwise, I have to make the very best decision for her- in this case, finishing with the diaper and going back downstairs. She responded with a shriek. I told her that I would help her out by finishing her diaper, to which she immediately responded, in a totally rational voice, "Mommy, I only want you to be happy!" (To which I replied, obviously, that I am happy no matter what she does! My adult emotions do not start and stop with her actions, and I want her to be well aware of that.) But ponder for a moment, if I would have applied the Pearl methods of going ahead and "switching" her until she was cheerful? For one thing, I would have switched my arm off, because I don't know anyone who responds to physical pain with "cheerfulness." For another- I would have missed what was arguably the cutest and silliest thing she said that day.
And I could probably go on and on, and describe many more adorable interactions with the little Gianna-bee, and describe how proactive, "Get Off (My) Butt Parenting," style responses have somehow managed to create a peaceful and happy and intelligent little girl. I have to wonder what Sean, Lydia, and possibly many other un-recognized Pearl victims would be like, had they not only lived, but had been parented consistently, gently, gracefully, and positively. Lydia may have mispronounced words, but she would have been reading. Joyfully, no doubt. God rest her sweet soul.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Classical Toddlerhood
Babe's gestating nicely... plans to VBAC as peacefully as possible are percolating...
And there is a short, intelligent little person who always wants to know more! After looking through different options and reading books and links, we've decided that the Classical, Latin-Based Curriculum looks like it will fit our style and Gianna's learning style beautifully! The very best part of this style of curriculum, I think, is the central concept of "Multum non multa." A broad amount of learning without extraneous "stuff." Much, not many.
Applying some principals of "multum non multa" to early childhood education is kind of fun and pliable- there really is not a lot recommended at this age outside of some fun and joyful childhood experiences- reading language-rich books that have a deeper meaning (such as, rather than "Dora The Explorer Saves the Day," read "The Hungry Caterpillar.") Explore the great outdoors, as much as possible, and with as much narration and child- originated activities. Bake together, explore art materials together, et cetera.
I had to "un-school" myself, to a certain degree, to get beyond the typical state-educated, teacher-trained mindset. Granted, I had already done this during my time teaching kindergarten at the Chicagoland public school. My class was comprised of students who were not the "typical" children towards which the curriculum was geared. So, a lot of times, the Houghton-Mifflin and Harcourt needed to be tossed aside. Working at the cult only exacerbated my extreme need to patchwork various types of curriculum together for a more precise tool.
While I have ideas about what I will use when it is time to use a more formal format for Gianna, here is just a bit of what we typically do together on a daily or weekly basis:
- Calendar time: Very loosely done, usually lasting no longer than five minutes per day. I have a pocket calendar and all of the stuff that goes along with it- right now we're mostly focusing on the month, day, date, and year. So it usually goes like this:
"What is the month? It starts with Ffff-" G- "February!" "Right! And yesterday was Sunday, so today is Monday! Tomorrow will be Tuesday." Then we say the whole date ("Today is Monday, February 22nd, 2010.") And then Gianna picks out a card depicting the day's weather- today the snowflake will represent the wet and heavy snow that is falling.
- Games: Hullabaloo, Memory, and Elefun do the trick for now, as well as a homemade ladybug spot-counting game that she enjoys. I think this blog would be much better with photos- I'll have to scrape up enough memory to take some photos and add them later!
- Baking: This is half necessity (heat up the downstairs and avoid buying bread at the store) and half fun. Just because Gianna doesn't understand the concept of "half" or "quarter" or "teaspoon" right now doesn't mean she can't be exposed to the sounds of the words, or to using the tools! Measuring and mixing and even some small amount of heavily-supervised cutting go into this. Math, sensory experiences, and language all fall nicely into place- as well as the social cooperation of working together and the natural rewards of following directions.
- Art: What don't we do?!? Gianna gets the full advantage of having two artistic parents who have a TON of materials around. Yarn, fabrics, various markers-crayons-pastels-pencils, paper of different types, watercolors and poster paint... it goes on and on. She first put marker to paper in June of 2008, shortly before turning one, and she's made it a point to do something creative ever since.
- Books: Mr Clarateaches has read to Gianna almost nightly since she was a little gestating belly babe. Currently, they either read three stories a night, or one chapter from the old, classic Winnie the Pooh book. During the day, she finds all kinds of favorites to bring to me to read. We also do a lot of environmental reading- she "reads" the cookbook (points out numbers and letters she knows, finds numbers in the junk mail we receive, and interprets road signs while driving).
- Recitation and Memorization: Perhaps controversial, but nothing I do is aimed at making people feel all warm and cozy about my decisions! We recite various Psalms and prayers at night as part of her bedtime routine. Soon, I will be adding classical nursery rhymes to her morning school time. I do this NOT so that she'll entertain other adults in social settings (because she probably wouldn't, anyway) but mostly because I want to grab her little brain while it's still forming connections and processes, and get some goodies crammed in there. The language and beauty of the content will add to her vocabulary and incidental understanding of the English language.
- Reading, 'Riting, and 'Rithmatic: Mostly still environmental, but I do plan on making her a chart loosely based on the Sing, Spell, Read & Write letter-sound song. SSR&W is a decent curriculum up to a certain point, where it sort of takes off in a direction that I wasn't totally fond of when I used it while teaching kindergarten at the cult. Calendar and other number cards on her wall have helped with linking numerals to their names, and counting to brush teeth have helped with rote counting. One-to-one correspondence has naturally followed a lot of what we do throughout the day.
Something we are working on is forming a bigger social circle, so that Gianna is exposed to different children. I'm enjoying the ebb and flow of her learning style- she likes to have a lot of materials, and hear what things are and how to do it... and then she wants me to back off while she absorbs it. And then wants to move on to something else, and just when I've resigned myself to the idea that she won't be picking up on that particular concept, she just starts using it or demonstrating it one day.
And there is a short, intelligent little person who always wants to know more! After looking through different options and reading books and links, we've decided that the Classical, Latin-Based Curriculum looks like it will fit our style and Gianna's learning style beautifully! The very best part of this style of curriculum, I think, is the central concept of "Multum non multa." A broad amount of learning without extraneous "stuff." Much, not many.
Applying some principals of "multum non multa" to early childhood education is kind of fun and pliable- there really is not a lot recommended at this age outside of some fun and joyful childhood experiences- reading language-rich books that have a deeper meaning (such as, rather than "Dora The Explorer Saves the Day," read "The Hungry Caterpillar.") Explore the great outdoors, as much as possible, and with as much narration and child- originated activities. Bake together, explore art materials together, et cetera.
I had to "un-school" myself, to a certain degree, to get beyond the typical state-educated, teacher-trained mindset. Granted, I had already done this during my time teaching kindergarten at the Chicagoland public school. My class was comprised of students who were not the "typical" children towards which the curriculum was geared. So, a lot of times, the Houghton-Mifflin and Harcourt needed to be tossed aside. Working at the cult only exacerbated my extreme need to patchwork various types of curriculum together for a more precise tool.
While I have ideas about what I will use when it is time to use a more formal format for Gianna, here is just a bit of what we typically do together on a daily or weekly basis:
- Calendar time: Very loosely done, usually lasting no longer than five minutes per day. I have a pocket calendar and all of the stuff that goes along with it- right now we're mostly focusing on the month, day, date, and year. So it usually goes like this:
"What is the month? It starts with Ffff-" G- "February!" "Right! And yesterday was Sunday, so today is Monday! Tomorrow will be Tuesday." Then we say the whole date ("Today is Monday, February 22nd, 2010.") And then Gianna picks out a card depicting the day's weather- today the snowflake will represent the wet and heavy snow that is falling.
- Games: Hullabaloo, Memory, and Elefun do the trick for now, as well as a homemade ladybug spot-counting game that she enjoys. I think this blog would be much better with photos- I'll have to scrape up enough memory to take some photos and add them later!
- Baking: This is half necessity (heat up the downstairs and avoid buying bread at the store) and half fun. Just because Gianna doesn't understand the concept of "half" or "quarter" or "teaspoon" right now doesn't mean she can't be exposed to the sounds of the words, or to using the tools! Measuring and mixing and even some small amount of heavily-supervised cutting go into this. Math, sensory experiences, and language all fall nicely into place- as well as the social cooperation of working together and the natural rewards of following directions.
- Art: What don't we do?!? Gianna gets the full advantage of having two artistic parents who have a TON of materials around. Yarn, fabrics, various markers-crayons-pastels-pencils, paper of different types, watercolors and poster paint... it goes on and on. She first put marker to paper in June of 2008, shortly before turning one, and she's made it a point to do something creative ever since.
- Books: Mr Clarateaches has read to Gianna almost nightly since she was a little gestating belly babe. Currently, they either read three stories a night, or one chapter from the old, classic Winnie the Pooh book. During the day, she finds all kinds of favorites to bring to me to read. We also do a lot of environmental reading- she "reads" the cookbook (points out numbers and letters she knows, finds numbers in the junk mail we receive, and interprets road signs while driving).
- Recitation and Memorization: Perhaps controversial, but nothing I do is aimed at making people feel all warm and cozy about my decisions! We recite various Psalms and prayers at night as part of her bedtime routine. Soon, I will be adding classical nursery rhymes to her morning school time. I do this NOT so that she'll entertain other adults in social settings (because she probably wouldn't, anyway) but mostly because I want to grab her little brain while it's still forming connections and processes, and get some goodies crammed in there. The language and beauty of the content will add to her vocabulary and incidental understanding of the English language.
- Reading, 'Riting, and 'Rithmatic: Mostly still environmental, but I do plan on making her a chart loosely based on the Sing, Spell, Read & Write letter-sound song. SSR&W is a decent curriculum up to a certain point, where it sort of takes off in a direction that I wasn't totally fond of when I used it while teaching kindergarten at the cult. Calendar and other number cards on her wall have helped with linking numerals to their names, and counting to brush teeth have helped with rote counting. One-to-one correspondence has naturally followed a lot of what we do throughout the day.
Something we are working on is forming a bigger social circle, so that Gianna is exposed to different children. I'm enjoying the ebb and flow of her learning style- she likes to have a lot of materials, and hear what things are and how to do it... and then she wants me to back off while she absorbs it. And then wants to move on to something else, and just when I've resigned myself to the idea that she won't be picking up on that particular concept, she just starts using it or demonstrating it one day.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Prenatally Pertaining Punitive Paradigm
Ordinarily, the circumstances surrounding anything "punitive" would be in my railing against many behaviorist theories about raising children. I'll stick that on hold for another day (or another few days, unless anyone feels like reading a novel).
In talking to various women of various generations about pregnancy and birth experiences, a very common, common refrain is the lack of ownership in the language used regarding their own bodies.
"I wanted to... but my doctor didn't allow it. "
"What will your doctor let you do?"
"I knew I was in trouble, I gained a few extra pounds more than the doctor wanted me to."
"They require that I ..."
Depending on my audience, I sometimes make the effort to re-script. "Oh, you mean they objected to this because it wasn't what they ordinarily do?" Usually, they stand firm in their coy determination that the almighty doctor knew what was the very best for them. And for the other three-thousand patients at their care facility. Don't you know- we're all factory assembled. All alike, no variance between any of us! Naturally, a textbook is the first thing to consult when there is any question.
Now. I'm sure I don't have to tell you how the rest of their pregnancy and birth story goes. Even though the majestic, wonderfully masterful doctor controlled every square inch of what was or was not allowed with their bodies, they end the same way- mamas totally out of control of their bodies, the doctors stepping in to do *whatever,* and baby and mama ending up on meds, attached to tubes and/or wires, and the sensation that crisis was averted.
Mothers of the world- I ask you:
WHEN THE HELL DID WE GET TO THE POINT WHERE WE HAVE TO BEG PERMISSION TO USE OUR OWN BODIES TO PUSH OUT OUR BABIES????
Don't get me wrong. Humans are innovative and clever, and have derived genuine ways to revive and maintain the life of mothers and babies who are in very dire circumstances. But when the exception begins to become the norm, it's time to pay attention. A lot of attention is paid to the reasons why, and how come, and the many hundreds of facets behind the legal, political, economical reasons why human birth in the 21st century in one of the biggest superpowers of the world can be so colossally screwed up. All of those reasons do fit into the giant puzzle that makes this up.
Little is discussed about women and the choices they make. No one likes to think that sometimes, people themselves can be a reason (trust, not the reason). We are the most over-informed people of any generation that has ever preceded us. How can we know so much about the state of the Dow, where our stock portfolio stands on an hourly basis, and the current Facebook status of our neighbor's cousin, but we typically don't try to find out what really is going on with our very own bodies? When a doctor says that a woman isn't designed to push out a nine pound baby, why does that woman typically just accept it, shrug and tell the world, "Well, that's the way the ball bounces," without even bothering to look at actual medical statistics? Many people, upon receiving a forwarded email that states that a particular company is putting some slogan in teeny-tiny words along the edge of their product, or that a certain law is in the process of being passed, will Google or Snopes the claim. Part and parcel of this over-informed culture. But the doctor mentions that he only "allows" labor for a certain period of time, and then it's out with the scalpel? And this is blindly, overwhelmingly accepted?
I think a large chunk of it lies with how people, particularly girls, have been raised. The same strange cultural floop that makes it a crime to not be smiling while walking through a store ("Smile! It won't kill ya!" inexorably yells someone, directly breaking the concentration required to remember what I'm locating), and that makes my sister's auto mechanic rub his hands in wicked glee as he watches her approach, seems to turn women into the very stereotypes of obedient children in the presence of a white coat. Pee into a cup? Sure, gladly. Step right onto this scale- harmless enough. Here, read this printout of what I expect all women, of all ages, body types, races, and lifestyles to do during the course of a pregnancy. Aye-aye, Doc! Oh, and by the way, I'm not liking the shape of your belly. Oh goodness, now you're not dilating quickly enough/ you're dilating too quickly, time for an injection. Because, of course, you've gotten our "Required IV," so it's now easy for anyone to pop anything directly into your veins, whether we clear it with you or not. All the consent forms are mashed into one haze of a paper storm, so you'll sign yourself away before you know what's happened...
How would this fly with any other natural bodily process? In the course of eating, eliminating, having sex, and breathing, complications can arise. I can choke on my food, of course. I can eat something that causes an anaphlactoid reaction. I can have all kinds of gastro-intestinal troubles, that range from the mildly uncomfortable, to impending doom with some kind of intestinal impaction. I can suddenly develop an aneurysm during sex. Or simply fall off the bed and give myself a concussion. But during these typical processes, no one has someone standing right beside them, prepared to give the Heimlich or do a tracheotomy. Heart monitors are not hooked up every time someone decides to get some action. Helmets, at least in my experience, are not employed. And yet somehow, the addition of monitors, IVs, automatic drug pumps, multiple examinations and lots of bright lights and poking and prodding are instantly given to each and every birthing mother in hospitals, unless she declines them, whether she wants them or not. Since declining these things are so rare, mothers who do decline them are instantly flagged as a "problem patient." Declining is the exception, rather than the norm. And until more women choose to decline, until more women decide that they're not going to ask permission to allow their bodies to function in the way they've functioned for years before anyone was around to interfere, and until women start viewing themselves as capable, thinking adults- no amount of modification of laws and studies and action taken against doctors who abuse their profession will amount to squat.
In talking to various women of various generations about pregnancy and birth experiences, a very common, common refrain is the lack of ownership in the language used regarding their own bodies.
"I wanted to... but my doctor didn't allow it. "
"What will your doctor let you do?"
"I knew I was in trouble, I gained a few extra pounds more than the doctor wanted me to."
"They require that I ..."
Depending on my audience, I sometimes make the effort to re-script. "Oh, you mean they objected to this because it wasn't what they ordinarily do?" Usually, they stand firm in their coy determination that the almighty doctor knew what was the very best for them. And for the other three-thousand patients at their care facility. Don't you know- we're all factory assembled. All alike, no variance between any of us! Naturally, a textbook is the first thing to consult when there is any question.
Now. I'm sure I don't have to tell you how the rest of their pregnancy and birth story goes. Even though the majestic, wonderfully masterful doctor controlled every square inch of what was or was not allowed with their bodies, they end the same way- mamas totally out of control of their bodies, the doctors stepping in to do *whatever,* and baby and mama ending up on meds, attached to tubes and/or wires, and the sensation that crisis was averted.
Mothers of the world- I ask you:
WHEN THE HELL DID WE GET TO THE POINT WHERE WE HAVE TO BEG PERMISSION TO USE OUR OWN BODIES TO PUSH OUT OUR BABIES????
Don't get me wrong. Humans are innovative and clever, and have derived genuine ways to revive and maintain the life of mothers and babies who are in very dire circumstances. But when the exception begins to become the norm, it's time to pay attention. A lot of attention is paid to the reasons why, and how come, and the many hundreds of facets behind the legal, political, economical reasons why human birth in the 21st century in one of the biggest superpowers of the world can be so colossally screwed up. All of those reasons do fit into the giant puzzle that makes this up.
Little is discussed about women and the choices they make. No one likes to think that sometimes, people themselves can be a reason (trust, not the reason). We are the most over-informed people of any generation that has ever preceded us. How can we know so much about the state of the Dow, where our stock portfolio stands on an hourly basis, and the current Facebook status of our neighbor's cousin, but we typically don't try to find out what really is going on with our very own bodies? When a doctor says that a woman isn't designed to push out a nine pound baby, why does that woman typically just accept it, shrug and tell the world, "Well, that's the way the ball bounces," without even bothering to look at actual medical statistics? Many people, upon receiving a forwarded email that states that a particular company is putting some slogan in teeny-tiny words along the edge of their product, or that a certain law is in the process of being passed, will Google or Snopes the claim. Part and parcel of this over-informed culture. But the doctor mentions that he only "allows" labor for a certain period of time, and then it's out with the scalpel? And this is blindly, overwhelmingly accepted?
I think a large chunk of it lies with how people, particularly girls, have been raised. The same strange cultural floop that makes it a crime to not be smiling while walking through a store ("Smile! It won't kill ya!" inexorably yells someone, directly breaking the concentration required to remember what I'm locating), and that makes my sister's auto mechanic rub his hands in wicked glee as he watches her approach, seems to turn women into the very stereotypes of obedient children in the presence of a white coat. Pee into a cup? Sure, gladly. Step right onto this scale- harmless enough. Here, read this printout of what I expect all women, of all ages, body types, races, and lifestyles to do during the course of a pregnancy. Aye-aye, Doc! Oh, and by the way, I'm not liking the shape of your belly. Oh goodness, now you're not dilating quickly enough/ you're dilating too quickly, time for an injection. Because, of course, you've gotten our "Required IV," so it's now easy for anyone to pop anything directly into your veins, whether we clear it with you or not. All the consent forms are mashed into one haze of a paper storm, so you'll sign yourself away before you know what's happened...
How would this fly with any other natural bodily process? In the course of eating, eliminating, having sex, and breathing, complications can arise. I can choke on my food, of course. I can eat something that causes an anaphlactoid reaction. I can have all kinds of gastro-intestinal troubles, that range from the mildly uncomfortable, to impending doom with some kind of intestinal impaction. I can suddenly develop an aneurysm during sex. Or simply fall off the bed and give myself a concussion. But during these typical processes, no one has someone standing right beside them, prepared to give the Heimlich or do a tracheotomy. Heart monitors are not hooked up every time someone decides to get some action. Helmets, at least in my experience, are not employed. And yet somehow, the addition of monitors, IVs, automatic drug pumps, multiple examinations and lots of bright lights and poking and prodding are instantly given to each and every birthing mother in hospitals, unless she declines them, whether she wants them or not. Since declining these things are so rare, mothers who do decline them are instantly flagged as a "problem patient." Declining is the exception, rather than the norm. And until more women choose to decline, until more women decide that they're not going to ask permission to allow their bodies to function in the way they've functioned for years before anyone was around to interfere, and until women start viewing themselves as capable, thinking adults- no amount of modification of laws and studies and action taken against doctors who abuse their profession will amount to squat.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Waking the Thought Police
Subtitle: How to have an All-American VBAC.
Firstly, I need to make it clear that for some reason, I'm famous among family and friends for having to do things the hard way. And in this case, the "hard way" is actually utilizing a hospital. The "easy way" would be a home birth.
So, why in the name of all things good and crunchy and wild-strength-of-a-woman-unleashed are we purposely going with a hospital VBAC?
For starters, cash flow. Miscarriages when done at home are cheap. Ones that quickly turn into a frightening emergency are quite expensive. As we aspire to live as debt-free as possible, our home birth midwife fund fast turned into a hospital bill fund. And was instantly obliterated.
Secondarily, it seems that the previous miscarriages might have been hinting at some thyroid trouble. I would like this to be noted, from start to finish, what various levels of thyroid hormones are doing. I had a baseline reading at the onset of this pregnancy, and it remains to be seen what will happen later.
So after nixing four other obstetrics groups (and boy, do obstetrics groups hate to be nixed. Word to the wise- it's hard to keep a straight face while nixing someone who obviously has already started sharpening their scalpel at the sight of your positive pregnancy test), we landed on a small group that works out of the small Catholic hospital that we used for our miscarriage-turned-emergency last July. Even though this group seems slightly more VBAC-friendly than the other groups, there are still multiple brick walls.
Let's start by looking at some statistics. Click right HERE for a good table of statistics gathered in a hospital setting alone in 1995. I emphasize "hospital setting alone," because statistics gathered by many American midwife groups suggest that the VBAC success rate at home is statistically significantly higher than the success rate in the hospital. This is due to a lot of factors that we can explore at another time, namely the use of various chemicals that are given in hospitals that interrupt the bio-pathway of the cascades of hormones involved in a normal, healthy birth. The statistics at this website seem to correlate The American College of Obstetrics and Gynecology, as cited HERE. So now, we have the prior, research-based understanding that it seems that, "Dozens of studies report that for women who have had one prior cesarean birth with a low-horizontal incision, the risk of uterine rupture is 0.5% to 1.0%." This, readers, is fairly close (in other words, there seems to be no statistical difference) to the rate of a spontaneous uterine rupture in a woman who is having her first baby (in other words, has never had uterine surgery).
My surgical scar is the very best type to have- a low, horizontal incision that was repaired separately from the fascia (instead of sewing everything up together, my wonderful and brilliant surgeon- the one I have lauded in previous posts- took the care and time to repair the uterus separately from the skin). My risk level for a "spontaneous" uterine rupture (that is, one that wasn't augmented by drugs) is now back down to what it was before I ever had a C-section.
Which brings us back to the OB group. I have now officially met with all of the doctors/care practitioners at this group. This motley crew consists of:
- Dr. Fashion: My (female) main doctor. I originally chose her, as I don't feel comfortable with male care practitioners. She is aloof, albeit professionally friendly, and has so far refused to give me her exact C-section rate. Red flags.
- Nurse Practitioner: The nurse practitioner gave a loud, "Great!" when I affirmed for her that I was indeed trying for a VBAC. She shrugged and said, "Whatever you want!" when I told her that none of the flu vaccines were an option for me.
- Dr. Older Guy: As his name might suggest, he's an older, gentleman doctor. Contrary to my pre-conceived notions, he actually encouraged me about the VBAC saying, "I don't see any reason why it won't happen at this point." He also seemed thrilled that I was doing my own research, and agreed with me that there was no reason to take tests or perform interventions if I felt it was unnecessary (as in, I declined the Gestational Diabetes test, and the nurse nearly laid down on the floor before she passed out and fell).
- Dr. Younger Guy: This doctor was the one who performed my (outpatient, D&C) surgery when my last miscarriage went all kooky. He appears to be even younger than me, but it's possible he's approximately my age. He stuttered and stammered his way through my appointment with him, and simultaneously wanted to make sure "they" had given me the pamphlet on the safety of VBAC (Question: Do "they" give pamphlets about the risks of repeat, major abdominal surgery to mothers who choose an elective Cesarean after a Cesarean?) while at the same time, repeating, "Okay, okay, okay," as I responded that I am confident in my own research.
I do not know if the Nurse Practitioner attends births, but of that list, I really think that I'd prefer to not be near half of these people while birthing.
Firstly, I need to make it clear that for some reason, I'm famous among family and friends for having to do things the hard way. And in this case, the "hard way" is actually utilizing a hospital. The "easy way" would be a home birth.
So, why in the name of all things good and crunchy and wild-strength-of-a-woman-unleashed are we purposely going with a hospital VBAC?
For starters, cash flow. Miscarriages when done at home are cheap. Ones that quickly turn into a frightening emergency are quite expensive. As we aspire to live as debt-free as possible, our home birth midwife fund fast turned into a hospital bill fund. And was instantly obliterated.
Secondarily, it seems that the previous miscarriages might have been hinting at some thyroid trouble. I would like this to be noted, from start to finish, what various levels of thyroid hormones are doing. I had a baseline reading at the onset of this pregnancy, and it remains to be seen what will happen later.
So after nixing four other obstetrics groups (and boy, do obstetrics groups hate to be nixed. Word to the wise- it's hard to keep a straight face while nixing someone who obviously has already started sharpening their scalpel at the sight of your positive pregnancy test), we landed on a small group that works out of the small Catholic hospital that we used for our miscarriage-turned-emergency last July. Even though this group seems slightly more VBAC-friendly than the other groups, there are still multiple brick walls.
Let's start by looking at some statistics. Click right HERE for a good table of statistics gathered in a hospital setting alone in 1995. I emphasize "hospital setting alone," because statistics gathered by many American midwife groups suggest that the VBAC success rate at home is statistically significantly higher than the success rate in the hospital. This is due to a lot of factors that we can explore at another time, namely the use of various chemicals that are given in hospitals that interrupt the bio-pathway of the cascades of hormones involved in a normal, healthy birth. The statistics at this website seem to correlate The American College of Obstetrics and Gynecology, as cited HERE. So now, we have the prior, research-based understanding that it seems that, "Dozens of studies report that for women who have had one prior cesarean birth with a low-horizontal incision, the risk of uterine rupture is 0.5% to 1.0%." This, readers, is fairly close (in other words, there seems to be no statistical difference) to the rate of a spontaneous uterine rupture in a woman who is having her first baby (in other words, has never had uterine surgery).
My surgical scar is the very best type to have- a low, horizontal incision that was repaired separately from the fascia (instead of sewing everything up together, my wonderful and brilliant surgeon- the one I have lauded in previous posts- took the care and time to repair the uterus separately from the skin). My risk level for a "spontaneous" uterine rupture (that is, one that wasn't augmented by drugs) is now back down to what it was before I ever had a C-section.
Which brings us back to the OB group. I have now officially met with all of the doctors/care practitioners at this group. This motley crew consists of:
- Dr. Fashion: My (female) main doctor. I originally chose her, as I don't feel comfortable with male care practitioners. She is aloof, albeit professionally friendly, and has so far refused to give me her exact C-section rate. Red flags.
- Nurse Practitioner: The nurse practitioner gave a loud, "Great!" when I affirmed for her that I was indeed trying for a VBAC. She shrugged and said, "Whatever you want!" when I told her that none of the flu vaccines were an option for me.
- Dr. Older Guy: As his name might suggest, he's an older, gentleman doctor. Contrary to my pre-conceived notions, he actually encouraged me about the VBAC saying, "I don't see any reason why it won't happen at this point." He also seemed thrilled that I was doing my own research, and agreed with me that there was no reason to take tests or perform interventions if I felt it was unnecessary (as in, I declined the Gestational Diabetes test, and the nurse nearly laid down on the floor before she passed out and fell).
- Dr. Younger Guy: This doctor was the one who performed my (outpatient, D&C) surgery when my last miscarriage went all kooky. He appears to be even younger than me, but it's possible he's approximately my age. He stuttered and stammered his way through my appointment with him, and simultaneously wanted to make sure "they" had given me the pamphlet on the safety of VBAC (Question: Do "they" give pamphlets about the risks of repeat, major abdominal surgery to mothers who choose an elective Cesarean after a Cesarean?) while at the same time, repeating, "Okay, okay, okay," as I responded that I am confident in my own research.
I do not know if the Nurse Practitioner attends births, but of that list, I really think that I'd prefer to not be near half of these people while birthing.
To be continued...
Monday, December 07, 2009
Well, Still, It's Been a Good Year...
What do you even say? If I was the type of person to even attempt a serious holiday letter, 2009 would have been a pathetic list of GM job fear, two miscarriages, a freak flood that destroyed parts of my hometown (including most of my mom's house), an even freakier sudden heart attack and brain anoxia that has changed my sister-in-law's husband, and then- a third pregnancy. That started out tenuously- for 14 solid weeks, my body acted as though I would be losing this baby again.
This baby is still here. An ultrasound a couple of weeks ago showed a whole, healthy, perfect baby. Active, squirrelly, and as of right now, still wiggling and bumping around occasionally. That's not to say that I've been able to relax. Who knows when I will relax, but I'm hoping I can take a deep breath sometime before early April, when this little one will, by God's grace, enter the world and take a deep breath of his or her own.
My brother has returned from Iraq, whole and safe and sound. My mom's house is slowly being reconstructed. My brother-in-law (in-law?) is going through therapy, and is working his way back to a new normal. And I cannot wait for 2010. Whatever it brings.
This baby is still here. An ultrasound a couple of weeks ago showed a whole, healthy, perfect baby. Active, squirrelly, and as of right now, still wiggling and bumping around occasionally. That's not to say that I've been able to relax. Who knows when I will relax, but I'm hoping I can take a deep breath sometime before early April, when this little one will, by God's grace, enter the world and take a deep breath of his or her own.
My brother has returned from Iraq, whole and safe and sound. My mom's house is slowly being reconstructed. My brother-in-law (in-law?) is going through therapy, and is working his way back to a new normal. And I cannot wait for 2010. Whatever it brings.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Heavy Heart
Mary Anaya's story has completed. Here is a link to an article written in the Omaha World-Herald.
http://www.omaha.com/article/20091022/NEWS01/710229910
About two years ago, when I first heard of her story and did some digging, I blogged about the atrocity of the removal of her youngest son Joel, from her home. With my own tiny one at home, the thought that someone could remove, at gunpoint, a newborn from his mother's arms, and it all was ordered by a judge, sickened me. Mary's crime was that she did not allow a state official to lance little Joel's heel and take five circles of blood from him, to test him for the state's mandated metabolic screen test. For that, many armed police officers burst through her door one morning, and in front of her frightened small children, grabbed baby Joel from her. The battle for her tiny baby went on for quite some time, while sympathetic social workers and the foster mother allowed her to (unlawfully) sneak visits five times a day to drop off pumped milk, and to nurse him. Joel eventually was returned, and this year, a higher court ruled that while Mary did indeed break Nebraska's (useless, stupid, liberty-killing) law, the lower court overreached their bounds by ordering his removal. I like to think my (and thousands of others) letter writing campaign played at least a small part! Surprisingly, that series of blog posts that I did was published in a Human Right's Advocacy project on the part of a group of lawyers that were collecting such violations.
Mary's tenacity and strength of character was truly something to behold. I never had the pleasure of meeting this wonderful woman, but countless people in many counties of Nebraska and Iowa benefitted from this woman's very giving nature.
Mary leaves behind a husband, Josue, and ten children, and a legacy that will be hard to fill. She joins her extremely tiny, far too premature little one, who died only hours before she did. God rest her peaceful, admirable soul.
http://www.omaha.com/article/20091022/NEWS01/710229910
About two years ago, when I first heard of her story and did some digging, I blogged about the atrocity of the removal of her youngest son Joel, from her home. With my own tiny one at home, the thought that someone could remove, at gunpoint, a newborn from his mother's arms, and it all was ordered by a judge, sickened me. Mary's crime was that she did not allow a state official to lance little Joel's heel and take five circles of blood from him, to test him for the state's mandated metabolic screen test. For that, many armed police officers burst through her door one morning, and in front of her frightened small children, grabbed baby Joel from her. The battle for her tiny baby went on for quite some time, while sympathetic social workers and the foster mother allowed her to (unlawfully) sneak visits five times a day to drop off pumped milk, and to nurse him. Joel eventually was returned, and this year, a higher court ruled that while Mary did indeed break Nebraska's (useless, stupid, liberty-killing) law, the lower court overreached their bounds by ordering his removal. I like to think my (and thousands of others) letter writing campaign played at least a small part! Surprisingly, that series of blog posts that I did was published in a Human Right's Advocacy project on the part of a group of lawyers that were collecting such violations.
Mary's tenacity and strength of character was truly something to behold. I never had the pleasure of meeting this wonderful woman, but countless people in many counties of Nebraska and Iowa benefitted from this woman's very giving nature.
Mary leaves behind a husband, Josue, and ten children, and a legacy that will be hard to fill. She joins her extremely tiny, far too premature little one, who died only hours before she did. God rest her peaceful, admirable soul.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Now I'm Dying to Know...
Seen today on a small, hand-lettered sign near the gas station:
"Free Foot Exam. Call 248-XXX-XXXX."
Um, hmm...
"Free Foot Exam. Call 248-XXX-XXXX."
Um, hmm...
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Re-visiting an old cause
Remember, many blogs ago, the online battle I helped wage against Nebraska's horrible invasion of privacy of a family who chose to homebirth, and to decline mandatory genetic testing of their little boy?
I have been, up until now, respecting the Anaya family's request for privacy involving something new that has cropped up. However, things have taken a drastic turn.
Mary Anaya, mama to 10, is right now fighting for her life. She was diagnosed only a couple of months ago with a rapidly growing lung cancer. Around the same time, she discovered that she is pregnant with her 11th child.
Recently, an ultrasound showed a beautiful little babe, kicking and growing, and as healthy as can be. Mary is currently being kept alive for the seven weeks or so that it will take for her baby to reach 25 weeks, and thus be able to live outside of her womb. Mary and her husband have desired this ever since they learned of the potential outcome of her diagnosis.
I'm going to re-post some info grabbed from a blog connected to her church.
The following is from Michael Ross, the Anayas' ministry partner from Christ for the City International in Omaha, Nebraska:
"The immediate prayer need is for the Lord to guide the doctors and nurses in the next steps they should take and that the antibiotics would combat the pneumonia. …Would you encourage your pastor to lead your church in prayer this Sunday morning? Would you add Mary Anaya to your church prayer list?"
Some of us have signed up for Mary's 24-hour prayer vigil here.
Some of us have given financially. Donations for medical costs can be sent to:
CFCI, PO Box 390395, Omaha, NE 68139.
(Checks payable to Mary Anaya)
Any questions about Mary's needs? Contact Michael at 402-592-8332 or mross@cfci.org .
***************************************************************************
This tiny, tiny baby will be taken very dangerously early. To give a good account of how early- Mary and I are actually due around the same time. My child is due to arrive around mid-April (and so far, a heartbeat has been seen AND heard!) My child will be born sometime around Easter, and hers was also supposed to be born around this time. Now, if this baby can make it until almost Christmas, it will be a miracle.
I have been, up until now, respecting the Anaya family's request for privacy involving something new that has cropped up. However, things have taken a drastic turn.
Mary Anaya, mama to 10, is right now fighting for her life. She was diagnosed only a couple of months ago with a rapidly growing lung cancer. Around the same time, she discovered that she is pregnant with her 11th child.
Recently, an ultrasound showed a beautiful little babe, kicking and growing, and as healthy as can be. Mary is currently being kept alive for the seven weeks or so that it will take for her baby to reach 25 weeks, and thus be able to live outside of her womb. Mary and her husband have desired this ever since they learned of the potential outcome of her diagnosis.
I'm going to re-post some info grabbed from a blog connected to her church.
The following is from Michael Ross, the Anayas' ministry partner from Christ for the City International in Omaha, Nebraska:
"The immediate prayer need is for the Lord to guide the doctors and nurses in the next steps they should take and that the antibiotics would combat the pneumonia. …Would you encourage your pastor to lead your church in prayer this Sunday morning? Would you add Mary Anaya to your church prayer list?"
Some of us have signed up for Mary's 24-hour prayer vigil here.
Some of us have given financially. Donations for medical costs can be sent to:
CFCI, PO Box 390395, Omaha, NE 68139.
(Checks payable to Mary Anaya)
Any questions about Mary's needs? Contact Michael at 402-592-8332 or mross@cfci.org .
***************************************************************************
This tiny, tiny baby will be taken very dangerously early. To give a good account of how early- Mary and I are actually due around the same time. My child is due to arrive around mid-April (and so far, a heartbeat has been seen AND heard!) My child will be born sometime around Easter, and hers was also supposed to be born around this time. Now, if this baby can make it until almost Christmas, it will be a miracle.
Monday, August 03, 2009
Strange Child's Mom
Gianna, being a social creature, has been cheerfully engaging other children in conversation in the grocery store and any other place where children happen to be. I decided that it might be a good idea to bring Gianna to places where there are other children, as she usually spends time with other adults. This isn't necessarily a "bad" thing, but having other kids to play with would be fun for her.
So, off we go. Swimming in the community pool, playing in the community playground, and just as soon as they start toddler programs up again, listening to stories at the community library. Gianna is a very happy girl when she sees kids. Her first reaction is to yell, "HI, kids! Hi litt-uh girl! Hi litt-uh boy!"
If the kids are young enough, they are equally happy to see her. If they are a bit older, say 8 or 9, they seem kind of sullen. In fact, one little girl at the Northville Trader Joes snapped, "I'm not talking to YOU," and flounced away. She, alas, matched the rest of the shoppers in that store. Northville, trust me, you are not *that* posh that you can justifiably be that snobby!
So, they're usually happy to see her as well. A pattern I'm noticing is that we will enter a community interaction site, Gianna and Strange Child/ Children spot each other, and instantly, Strange Child's mother goes into super fussy disciplinarian mode. Especially if they were there first- it almost seems like Strange Child's mother is trying to verbalize "her" unwritten rules of the playground by talking her child to death.
Enter playground. Gianna and Strange Child spot each other, and each squeal, "A litt-uh GIRL!!!" Strange Child's Mom (SCM) and I give each other the "Hi, I am way too busy with my child to converse, but hello just the same" smile and nod. Gianna instantly runs to the stairs to the playground, with Strange Child in hot pursuit. Strange Child overtakes Gianna, and stands on the stairs, instantly uncertain. Gianna starts to climb the stairs, and stands on the same step. Both children regard one another. Instantly, the moms start coaching from the sidelines.
SCM: "Strange, move out of the way! The little girl wants to slide!"
Me: "It's okay- Gianna, let the little girl go up the stairs!"
Both kids stare at each other, fascinated. One or the other of us moms goes and helps their child move more quickly up the stairs (or down the stairs) and the process repeats until one of the kids spots the plastic climbing dinosaur. We all troop over to the dinosaur, SCM fretting the whole way, "Don't run! Be careful! Mulch is slippery! Watch out!" Gianna usually trips and falls flat onto the mulch, as she gets her sporting ability from me. The mulch does its job, though, and she bounces right back up with no trouble at all. "She's okay," I assure the SCM, who is restraining herself from hovering over Gianna and picking her up.
We reach the dinosaur. Gianna picks up some mulch and offers it to the dinosaur. "Eat mutch!" she bellows, and Strange Child laughs. Strange Child does the same. SCM frets in the background, "Don't throw the mulch! Be careful! Put it down, it's icky..." At the suggestion of actually throwing the mulch, both girls instantly begin to toss mulch on the dinosaur. "Dinosaur take a bath!" Gianna yells. As it doesn't seem to be hurting anyone except the dinosaur (I see a tiny, plastic tear fall from his eye, which has been scratched out by years of use) I say nothing.
SCM, however, is irate. Didn't she just say NOT to throw mulch? And now here they are, throwing mulch. And I'm not doing ANYTHING about it! She glances between me and the kids, and finally starts chanting, "Strange, stop throwing. STOP throwing. Don't you pick that up... don't you throw- didn't you hear me? Stop! Don't throw it again. I said, 'Don't throw it again!' Put that DOWN..." while standing perfectly still.
I walk over to Gianna, which mobilizes SCM. She springs to her child, grabs their little mulch-y fists and wrings out every last bit of mulch. Gianna gives one last toss and I recommend the swings. She agrees, and we head over to the swings. SCM finishes lecturing Strange, who has already joined us in our trek to the swings. Gianna climbs on, and I start pushing her. Strange decides to lay belly first on the swing, and kick instead of being pushed. SCM wants to match- "Strange, want me to push you? Push you like the little girl? Let's swing on our bottoms. Get off and I will help you-"
Strange wants nothing to do with what we are doing. She screeches, and SCM backs off with, "Okay, let me know if you want help. I'm right here. Want help? Do you want me to push you?" The next five minutes, she reminds Strange about 45 times that she's standing right there, and can push her if she wants. Shortly, Strange gets a bit tired of this, and heads away. SCM decides it's time to leave, and grabs a now kicking and screaming Strange and heads for the gate. We watch them go.
Then, head back to the dinosaur to give it another mulch bath.
So, off we go. Swimming in the community pool, playing in the community playground, and just as soon as they start toddler programs up again, listening to stories at the community library. Gianna is a very happy girl when she sees kids. Her first reaction is to yell, "HI, kids! Hi litt-uh girl! Hi litt-uh boy!"
If the kids are young enough, they are equally happy to see her. If they are a bit older, say 8 or 9, they seem kind of sullen. In fact, one little girl at the Northville Trader Joes snapped, "I'm not talking to YOU," and flounced away. She, alas, matched the rest of the shoppers in that store. Northville, trust me, you are not *that* posh that you can justifiably be that snobby!
So, they're usually happy to see her as well. A pattern I'm noticing is that we will enter a community interaction site, Gianna and Strange Child/ Children spot each other, and instantly, Strange Child's mother goes into super fussy disciplinarian mode. Especially if they were there first- it almost seems like Strange Child's mother is trying to verbalize "her" unwritten rules of the playground by talking her child to death.
Enter playground. Gianna and Strange Child spot each other, and each squeal, "A litt-uh GIRL!!!" Strange Child's Mom (SCM) and I give each other the "Hi, I am way too busy with my child to converse, but hello just the same" smile and nod. Gianna instantly runs to the stairs to the playground, with Strange Child in hot pursuit. Strange Child overtakes Gianna, and stands on the stairs, instantly uncertain. Gianna starts to climb the stairs, and stands on the same step. Both children regard one another. Instantly, the moms start coaching from the sidelines.
SCM: "Strange, move out of the way! The little girl wants to slide!"
Me: "It's okay- Gianna, let the little girl go up the stairs!"
Both kids stare at each other, fascinated. One or the other of us moms goes and helps their child move more quickly up the stairs (or down the stairs) and the process repeats until one of the kids spots the plastic climbing dinosaur. We all troop over to the dinosaur, SCM fretting the whole way, "Don't run! Be careful! Mulch is slippery! Watch out!" Gianna usually trips and falls flat onto the mulch, as she gets her sporting ability from me. The mulch does its job, though, and she bounces right back up with no trouble at all. "She's okay," I assure the SCM, who is restraining herself from hovering over Gianna and picking her up.
We reach the dinosaur. Gianna picks up some mulch and offers it to the dinosaur. "Eat mutch!" she bellows, and Strange Child laughs. Strange Child does the same. SCM frets in the background, "Don't throw the mulch! Be careful! Put it down, it's icky..." At the suggestion of actually throwing the mulch, both girls instantly begin to toss mulch on the dinosaur. "Dinosaur take a bath!" Gianna yells. As it doesn't seem to be hurting anyone except the dinosaur (I see a tiny, plastic tear fall from his eye, which has been scratched out by years of use) I say nothing.
SCM, however, is irate. Didn't she just say NOT to throw mulch? And now here they are, throwing mulch. And I'm not doing ANYTHING about it! She glances between me and the kids, and finally starts chanting, "Strange, stop throwing. STOP throwing. Don't you pick that up... don't you throw- didn't you hear me? Stop! Don't throw it again. I said, 'Don't throw it again!' Put that DOWN..." while standing perfectly still.
I walk over to Gianna, which mobilizes SCM. She springs to her child, grabs their little mulch-y fists and wrings out every last bit of mulch. Gianna gives one last toss and I recommend the swings. She agrees, and we head over to the swings. SCM finishes lecturing Strange, who has already joined us in our trek to the swings. Gianna climbs on, and I start pushing her. Strange decides to lay belly first on the swing, and kick instead of being pushed. SCM wants to match- "Strange, want me to push you? Push you like the little girl? Let's swing on our bottoms. Get off and I will help you-"
Strange wants nothing to do with what we are doing. She screeches, and SCM backs off with, "Okay, let me know if you want help. I'm right here. Want help? Do you want me to push you?" The next five minutes, she reminds Strange about 45 times that she's standing right there, and can push her if she wants. Shortly, Strange gets a bit tired of this, and heads away. SCM decides it's time to leave, and grabs a now kicking and screaming Strange and heads for the gate. We watch them go.
Then, head back to the dinosaur to give it another mulch bath.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
"If You Want Convenience, Get a Doll..."
Wow- someone read my mind! Then, traveled back through time, and wrote it down. That's my stance, and I'm sticking to it.
I stumbled across this article, originally written in 1994 and updated later, by Katherine Dettwyler. It describes exactly why scheduling the habits of a baby is detrimental to the baby (and perhaps mom as well).
She describes the phenomenon of scheduled feeding, which a lot of "mainstream" parenting "experts" like to champion. These "experts" (many of whom, oddly enough, are men and thus will never actually give birth, deal with the swirling, twirling and whirling hormones involved, and will probably never lactate. Unless they're dedicated enough to induce lactation. We won't go there.)
Dettwyler only focuses on breastfeeding (and touches briefly on co-sleeping, as it relates to nursing on a natural schedule) but one thing I have found with the "Baby Trainers" is that every function of a baby's body is somehow related to discipline. And by "discipline," they don't necessarily mean a practice or a form of guiding, but they mean a way to shape and mold a baby onto an adult's personal time table.
Let's define "Baby Trainer," first. Not everyone who writes a parenting book is a "Baby Trainer." Only those who guarantee that a baby will be compliant, complacent, and will fit neatly into the current 9 to 5 work week schedule, by ANY means, is a Baby Trainer. Someone who recommends particular foods or recipes, then, is not a Baby Trainer. Someone who states that if a parent does X, Y, and Z and that they WILL get the results of an infant sleeping all the way through the night, is a Baby Trainer.
The first three months of a baby's life are currently referred to as the "Fourth Trimester." Human babies, it seems, are born prematurely. Even if they come at 41 or 42 or (gasp- "How did your doctor ALLOW this???") 43 weeks, they are still about three months behind other primates at birth- they are very fetal in nature, prefer to be curled like a little bug, and still require the closeness, warmth, heartbeat, and constant nutrition of the womb. Only, mom gets to do this from the outside, now.
Gianna, at age 2 years and 1 week, is now doing the following:
- Sleeping through many nights, often in her own bed.
- Eating meals with us, and snacking sporadically throughout the day, depending on her hunger level. She is NOT a picky eater- she eats everything from marinated eggplant and pickles, to kale (white bean, carrot and kale soup is her favorite meal ever) to raw zucchini.
- Working on the potty. Two steps forward, one step back.
- Exploring the backyard while I hang out in the distance and let her do her thing, playing independently with many different types of toys, speaking to other adults and children, and showing empathy when other kids are sad, or get hurt, or are happy.
None of this was trained into her. God knows, we had some nights where I just wanted to poke my eyes out and run screaming for the hills- parenting is NOT easy. Nothing worthwhile is easy- every single thing in life that is worth having requires work. A successful career, a happy marriage, one's own health and well-being, etc. It doesn't just "happen," and it also can't be forced into place. All the time that I was nursing on demand (and at three weeks and then at three months, "on demand" meant, "May as well not even wear a shirt today," thanks to appropriate developmental leaps)... all the nights where she woke up every 45 minutes... every time she kicked me square in the eyeball in the middle of the night... she did not turn into a selfish monster, demanding constantly that I succumb to each and every whim. There are many parts of the day I don't have to entertain her- she does really well on her own. All of the "What if's?" and questions that the "Baby Trainers" bring up just did not come to pass.
Snake-oil salesmen. Professors of lies. Heretics, some of them, if they are writing that God intends for all children to follow a clock. Really, they're cheats. They grab the attention of parents desperate to do the right thing by their child, by using all the right words, and promising the moon. Parents who buy into this are by no means stupid or even necessarily abusive (to begin with), but want the very best for their child. These crooks are selling just the right magic beans.
I stumbled across this article, originally written in 1994 and updated later, by Katherine Dettwyler. It describes exactly why scheduling the habits of a baby is detrimental to the baby (and perhaps mom as well).
She describes the phenomenon of scheduled feeding, which a lot of "mainstream" parenting "experts" like to champion. These "experts" (many of whom, oddly enough, are men and thus will never actually give birth, deal with the swirling, twirling and whirling hormones involved, and will probably never lactate. Unless they're dedicated enough to induce lactation. We won't go there.)
Dettwyler only focuses on breastfeeding (and touches briefly on co-sleeping, as it relates to nursing on a natural schedule) but one thing I have found with the "Baby Trainers" is that every function of a baby's body is somehow related to discipline. And by "discipline," they don't necessarily mean a practice or a form of guiding, but they mean a way to shape and mold a baby onto an adult's personal time table.
Let's define "Baby Trainer," first. Not everyone who writes a parenting book is a "Baby Trainer." Only those who guarantee that a baby will be compliant, complacent, and will fit neatly into the current 9 to 5 work week schedule, by ANY means, is a Baby Trainer. Someone who recommends particular foods or recipes, then, is not a Baby Trainer. Someone who states that if a parent does X, Y, and Z and that they WILL get the results of an infant sleeping all the way through the night, is a Baby Trainer.
The first three months of a baby's life are currently referred to as the "Fourth Trimester." Human babies, it seems, are born prematurely. Even if they come at 41 or 42 or (gasp- "How did your doctor ALLOW this???") 43 weeks, they are still about three months behind other primates at birth- they are very fetal in nature, prefer to be curled like a little bug, and still require the closeness, warmth, heartbeat, and constant nutrition of the womb. Only, mom gets to do this from the outside, now.
Gianna, at age 2 years and 1 week, is now doing the following:
- Sleeping through many nights, often in her own bed.
- Eating meals with us, and snacking sporadically throughout the day, depending on her hunger level. She is NOT a picky eater- she eats everything from marinated eggplant and pickles, to kale (white bean, carrot and kale soup is her favorite meal ever) to raw zucchini.
- Working on the potty. Two steps forward, one step back.
- Exploring the backyard while I hang out in the distance and let her do her thing, playing independently with many different types of toys, speaking to other adults and children, and showing empathy when other kids are sad, or get hurt, or are happy.
None of this was trained into her. God knows, we had some nights where I just wanted to poke my eyes out and run screaming for the hills- parenting is NOT easy. Nothing worthwhile is easy- every single thing in life that is worth having requires work. A successful career, a happy marriage, one's own health and well-being, etc. It doesn't just "happen," and it also can't be forced into place. All the time that I was nursing on demand (and at three weeks and then at three months, "on demand" meant, "May as well not even wear a shirt today," thanks to appropriate developmental leaps)... all the nights where she woke up every 45 minutes... every time she kicked me square in the eyeball in the middle of the night... she did not turn into a selfish monster, demanding constantly that I succumb to each and every whim. There are many parts of the day I don't have to entertain her- she does really well on her own. All of the "What if's?" and questions that the "Baby Trainers" bring up just did not come to pass.
Snake-oil salesmen. Professors of lies. Heretics, some of them, if they are writing that God intends for all children to follow a clock. Really, they're cheats. They grab the attention of parents desperate to do the right thing by their child, by using all the right words, and promising the moon. Parents who buy into this are by no means stupid or even necessarily abusive (to begin with), but want the very best for their child. These crooks are selling just the right magic beans.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Canine Rivalry
I'm going to hold off talking about another piece of attachment parenting- avoiding "baby trainers-" until I can muster a few more constructive things to say. Something about all of the swirling, crashing and looping hormones following a miscarriage leaves little but vitriol when discussing people who try to convince parents to do harmful and bizarre things to their infants all for the sake of "scheduling" or "convenience." Who has children for convenience? People who want accessories and are allergic to dogs?
So, yes. We shall save the shysters and con-men (Gary Ezzo, Michael and Debi Pearl, the loony tunes who wrote the "What to Expect... series, et cetera) for another day.
Today, speaking of dogs, we will carefully examine the relationship between a two year old and her loyal pooch. To do so, we need to first analyze the two year old. Contrary to popular belief, "Two's" (as we will call two-year-olds) are not "terrible." Tumultuous, yes. Tantrum-y, of course. As tempestuous as the sea, and as tormented as the most sensitive artist, Two's are also very energetic, loving, and are adorably learning compassion and empathy. Or, at least mine is.
For example, she just tripped and fell over Lola. At 75 lbs, and black with white markings, Lola is very hard to miss. However, my two year old has taken to trying to walk without looking. I think she's developing her sixth sense. At any rate, she fell right on top of the dog, who barked and jumped up. After tears and cuddles and reminders that our eyes need to watch where we are walking, she flopped back onto the floor with Lola, who went back to the same spot on the floor and resumed her lounge. "I'm sowwy, Lola, sowwy bumped. Bumped Lola," Gianna explained to Lola, from a distance of approximately three millimeters.
(Note: Dear Baby Trainers- I have never asked my child to apologize, nor have I expositorily taught her to apologize. Having modeled apologies myself to and around her since birth, though, she somehow is miraculously managing to pick it up! No switches or spankings involved! Imagine that! What a strange phenomenon- I actually treated my child the way I like to be treated, totally neglected to cram "apologies" down her throat, and hot diggity damn, she's doing it herself! In the appropriate context, even! Love and mush, Clara. P.S.- Let's all hope we never meet in a dark ally. Mr. Clarateaches would love to spend my potential bail money on something different. Insert hearts here, Clara.)
Things are not always so fuzzy and warm. Lola vacillates between fear and loathing, and curiosity and nosiness. I do not leave Gianna and Lola alone together, especially since we leave markers and chalk here and there. Over time, these art materials have managed to procreate, and rogue bands of markers turn up everywhere. Using the powers of "slight of hand," Gianna can fashion an impromptu tattoo right on Lola's fluffy white chest within moments of my eyes aiming in another direction.
Recently, Gianna has decided that Lola needs another collar. My tape measure is just the right thing to make that new collar, and she follows Lola throughout the day, trying to attach it. Lola skitters through the house, ears back, eyes horrified at the thought of strangulation by standard measurement. However, when I re-direct Gianna's attention to something else she finds entertaining (some differential equations, perhaps, or some Greek translations. It depends on the day), in approximately thirty seconds, Lola is peeking around the corner, looking for her strange little girl. An ice cube tray crammed full of play dough was vigorously offered to the Dogasus yesterday. Lola declined. Repeatedly. Then she walked away, while staring back at Gianna. As soon as she flopped down into her new observation spot, Gianna followed with more delicious play dough cubes. I redirected Gianna to the center of the floor, enticing her with more plastic utensils with which to mangle the dough. As soon as Gianna was occupied, Lola lifted her head and stared at me. And at Gianna. And back at me. Before long, she was walking back to Gianna, sniffing and poking her head into Gianna's business. And the dance continued.
On Gianna's end, she lives with concern that the dog will get her things or food. On the way to the kitchen for a "Grow-Lola-bar," (granola bar) Lola will typically follow us and at some point pass us and run for the kitchen door. She knows that following Gianna means following the action. Gianna, seeing this, yells frantically, "Lola's grow-lola-bar, NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! NO LOLA'S GROW-LOLA-BAR!!!!!!!!"
"Does Lola eat granola bars?" I ask her. "Nooo..." Gianna says uncertainly, and by the time we get to the granola bars, Lola is circling like a shark and Gianna is screeching to Lola. I put Lola outside, and retrieve a bar for the girl. Lola peers through the window while Gianna starts to eat the bar, and then Gianna squishes her bar into the window, screeching, "EAT! EAT GROW-LOLA-BAR!!!" This scene repeats multiple times a day, with various edible and inedible items.
So, yes. We shall save the shysters and con-men (Gary Ezzo, Michael and Debi Pearl, the loony tunes who wrote the "What to Expect... series, et cetera) for another day.
Today, speaking of dogs, we will carefully examine the relationship between a two year old and her loyal pooch. To do so, we need to first analyze the two year old. Contrary to popular belief, "Two's" (as we will call two-year-olds) are not "terrible." Tumultuous, yes. Tantrum-y, of course. As tempestuous as the sea, and as tormented as the most sensitive artist, Two's are also very energetic, loving, and are adorably learning compassion and empathy. Or, at least mine is.
For example, she just tripped and fell over Lola. At 75 lbs, and black with white markings, Lola is very hard to miss. However, my two year old has taken to trying to walk without looking. I think she's developing her sixth sense. At any rate, she fell right on top of the dog, who barked and jumped up. After tears and cuddles and reminders that our eyes need to watch where we are walking, she flopped back onto the floor with Lola, who went back to the same spot on the floor and resumed her lounge. "I'm sowwy, Lola, sowwy bumped. Bumped Lola," Gianna explained to Lola, from a distance of approximately three millimeters.
(Note: Dear Baby Trainers- I have never asked my child to apologize, nor have I expositorily taught her to apologize. Having modeled apologies myself to and around her since birth, though, she somehow is miraculously managing to pick it up! No switches or spankings involved! Imagine that! What a strange phenomenon- I actually treated my child the way I like to be treated, totally neglected to cram "apologies" down her throat, and hot diggity damn, she's doing it herself! In the appropriate context, even! Love and mush, Clara. P.S.- Let's all hope we never meet in a dark ally. Mr. Clarateaches would love to spend my potential bail money on something different. Insert hearts here, Clara.)
Things are not always so fuzzy and warm. Lola vacillates between fear and loathing, and curiosity and nosiness. I do not leave Gianna and Lola alone together, especially since we leave markers and chalk here and there. Over time, these art materials have managed to procreate, and rogue bands of markers turn up everywhere. Using the powers of "slight of hand," Gianna can fashion an impromptu tattoo right on Lola's fluffy white chest within moments of my eyes aiming in another direction.
Recently, Gianna has decided that Lola needs another collar. My tape measure is just the right thing to make that new collar, and she follows Lola throughout the day, trying to attach it. Lola skitters through the house, ears back, eyes horrified at the thought of strangulation by standard measurement. However, when I re-direct Gianna's attention to something else she finds entertaining (some differential equations, perhaps, or some Greek translations. It depends on the day), in approximately thirty seconds, Lola is peeking around the corner, looking for her strange little girl. An ice cube tray crammed full of play dough was vigorously offered to the Dogasus yesterday. Lola declined. Repeatedly. Then she walked away, while staring back at Gianna. As soon as she flopped down into her new observation spot, Gianna followed with more delicious play dough cubes. I redirected Gianna to the center of the floor, enticing her with more plastic utensils with which to mangle the dough. As soon as Gianna was occupied, Lola lifted her head and stared at me. And at Gianna. And back at me. Before long, she was walking back to Gianna, sniffing and poking her head into Gianna's business. And the dance continued.
On Gianna's end, she lives with concern that the dog will get her things or food. On the way to the kitchen for a "Grow-Lola-bar," (granola bar) Lola will typically follow us and at some point pass us and run for the kitchen door. She knows that following Gianna means following the action. Gianna, seeing this, yells frantically, "Lola's grow-lola-bar, NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! NO LOLA'S GROW-LOLA-BAR!!!!!!!!"
"Does Lola eat granola bars?" I ask her. "Nooo..." Gianna says uncertainly, and by the time we get to the granola bars, Lola is circling like a shark and Gianna is screeching to Lola. I put Lola outside, and retrieve a bar for the girl. Lola peers through the window while Gianna starts to eat the bar, and then Gianna squishes her bar into the window, screeching, "EAT! EAT GROW-LOLA-BAR!!!" This scene repeats multiple times a day, with various edible and inedible items.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Crying Babies- Not Just a Pain in Your Ass
"Belief in Baby's Cries," as Dr Sears himself calls this aspect of attachment parenting, is the understanding that babies have a reason for all that they do. This really is the crux of it- babies are born hardwired to survive. They give off an alarmingly loud and heart-tugging wail when something needs to be attended to. Usually, it has anything and everything to do with food, sleep, comfort, and nurturing. Breastfeeding, by nature, covers all of the above- it's food, it is sleep-inducing (for Mama and Baby), it brings a sense of comfort to the baby.
Take away the food on demand, or the sleeping in close proximity, or being held, and the baby will cry. This seems fairly simple to solve- obviously add the missing component, and the baby will stop.
Some people, who have decided that they are the God-send (literally) to all long-suffering parents, advise that the cries are an instrument of manipulation. That babies are in training to be major brats if their parents just cave in and nurse on demand, or enable them to sleep close by, or hold them too much. I'm not that politically correct enough to stop myself from saying- these people are complete buffoons. Wonderful examples of ignoramuses. Applying adult, learned behaviors such as manipulation and negative intent to small, primal creatures is appallingly self-centered and probably a good indication of how these adults live their lives- through manipulation and coercion.
Attachment parenting does not mean "Let the kids do whatever, whenever." It doesn't mean that just because Junior cries for a dirt bike at the tender age of 4, that he gets one. It also doesn't mean your children will never cry. It DOES mean that if the needs of babies are attended to at a very small age, and they understand (through constant repetition and immediate cause and effect) that their basic needs will be taken care of, that later on in the difficult toddler and preschooler "big feelings" stages (in other words, when the meltdowns cause Mom to wish for an invisibility cloak and cause onlookers to wish for a tranquilizer dart) that children ultimately understand that even though they are full of outrage and frustration, that it is not the end of the world. Their little "cups" are still nice and full.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Aside from the AP tutorial, and in personal news, our latest addition has already flown. In outline format, here are the order of events:
- Pregnancy detected.
- In May, right around 6-7 weeks, a heartbeat was seen on ultrasound. The baby was positioned perfectly, had a healthy heartbeat, yolk sac, and was developing a healthy placenta.
- Abruptly around week 9-10, all pregnancy symptoms (morning sickness, exhaustion, food aversions, etc.) stopped.
- Last Friday, the midwife listened for a heartbeat. Nothing. We tried to listen and doppler for more than a half an hour.
- Yesterday, an ultrasound confirmed that, at an even later gestation than last time, our baby has joined his or her siblings in the arms of God.
Very sad, and in an increasing amount of physical pain, we wait for everything to complete. We also are now on the path to some answers. Miscarriage and birth loss is a lonely place to be, even though it happens frequently. It's not spoken about until it happens, and then women whisper to one another, "I've been there too." It's still somehow seen as something to either hide, or forget, or put away. It's difficult to grieve for a person you never knew- while I know that this latest little sprout had chubby cheeks already, and looks on the ultrasound like a perfectly formed tiny babe, I have no idea what he or she would have been like.
Nothing happens without reason. I may never know that reason, but it doesn't matter- my babies did not live or die without a specific purpose. Gianna may have to wait a little longer for a sibling, but ultimately, we will understand someday when we do look into the brand new face of an arrival, and see what we were waiting for this whole time.
Take away the food on demand, or the sleeping in close proximity, or being held, and the baby will cry. This seems fairly simple to solve- obviously add the missing component, and the baby will stop.
Some people, who have decided that they are the God-send (literally) to all long-suffering parents, advise that the cries are an instrument of manipulation. That babies are in training to be major brats if their parents just cave in and nurse on demand, or enable them to sleep close by, or hold them too much. I'm not that politically correct enough to stop myself from saying- these people are complete buffoons. Wonderful examples of ignoramuses. Applying adult, learned behaviors such as manipulation and negative intent to small, primal creatures is appallingly self-centered and probably a good indication of how these adults live their lives- through manipulation and coercion.
Attachment parenting does not mean "Let the kids do whatever, whenever." It doesn't mean that just because Junior cries for a dirt bike at the tender age of 4, that he gets one. It also doesn't mean your children will never cry. It DOES mean that if the needs of babies are attended to at a very small age, and they understand (through constant repetition and immediate cause and effect) that their basic needs will be taken care of, that later on in the difficult toddler and preschooler "big feelings" stages (in other words, when the meltdowns cause Mom to wish for an invisibility cloak and cause onlookers to wish for a tranquilizer dart) that children ultimately understand that even though they are full of outrage and frustration, that it is not the end of the world. Their little "cups" are still nice and full.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Aside from the AP tutorial, and in personal news, our latest addition has already flown. In outline format, here are the order of events:
- Pregnancy detected.
- In May, right around 6-7 weeks, a heartbeat was seen on ultrasound. The baby was positioned perfectly, had a healthy heartbeat, yolk sac, and was developing a healthy placenta.
- Abruptly around week 9-10, all pregnancy symptoms (morning sickness, exhaustion, food aversions, etc.) stopped.
- Last Friday, the midwife listened for a heartbeat. Nothing. We tried to listen and doppler for more than a half an hour.
- Yesterday, an ultrasound confirmed that, at an even later gestation than last time, our baby has joined his or her siblings in the arms of God.
Very sad, and in an increasing amount of physical pain, we wait for everything to complete. We also are now on the path to some answers. Miscarriage and birth loss is a lonely place to be, even though it happens frequently. It's not spoken about until it happens, and then women whisper to one another, "I've been there too." It's still somehow seen as something to either hide, or forget, or put away. It's difficult to grieve for a person you never knew- while I know that this latest little sprout had chubby cheeks already, and looks on the ultrasound like a perfectly formed tiny babe, I have no idea what he or she would have been like.
Nothing happens without reason. I may never know that reason, but it doesn't matter- my babies did not live or die without a specific purpose. Gianna may have to wait a little longer for a sibling, but ultimately, we will understand someday when we do look into the brand new face of an arrival, and see what we were waiting for this whole time.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Codetalker
Strange circumstances happened to put me in the position of being able to carefully look at the roots of a beautiful little sprout.
Flashing!
Life is wonderful. Time to count down to a January harvest.
Flashing!
Life is wonderful. Time to count down to a January harvest.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Great Day in the Morning
Has it really been a whole month? So much for my theory that I will blog more if I have assigned topics for myself!
So where was I? Co-sleeping. Ah yes. The little devil of Attachment Parenting, which NY is currently spending mystery money (the mystery being- where does it come from? I thought the state was flat broke!) trying to campaign against. Radio and television ads are all over, trying to scare people into making their babies sleep flat on their backs in a crib, in a room away from parents.
The research that they use to conclude that co-sleeping (or "the family bed") is scary and causes SIDS includes data from accidental co-sleeping situations. Where geniuses decide to hit the bottle of wine and take a few drags from a crack pipe before using their child as a pillow for their drunken stupor. Oddly, the research doesn't include cases where babies are in their cribs and they pass away from SIDS.
True co-sleeping situations involve (as all parenting situations do) some foresight. Small babies need to be kept away from pillows, blankets, stuffed toys, people who are medicated or drunk, sharp objects, electrical devices, and for God's sake, spoiled pampered pets. Mattresses need to be pushed completely to the wall so that there are no gaps, and the bed needs to be secured so that bambinos aren't falling four feet to the ground. For some people, that means a securely attached bed rail; for others, that means putting the mattress directly onto the floor.
For us, it meant a couple of things- when Gianna was tiny, we had her in our Arms Reach Co-Sleeper, firmly attached to the bed. If she happened to fall asleep next to me, the farthest she could fall if she rolled away was two inches. Now that she's bigger and older, she makes herself at home for part of the night in the center 80% of the bed. Previously, Mr. Clarateaches' strange coma style of sleep made it dangerous to have her between us. Now, Gianna kicks and dances through the night, so the danger of overlay is really small. The danger of the three of us making a capital letter H is fairly high.
At this point, Gianna is sleeping for at least half the night in her own bed, and then moves in on our territory. She loves her own bed, and her room, and has slowly but surely gotten more inclined to be in her own space- the fear of co-sleeping children "never" leaving the family bed is just hilariously silly.
So where was I? Co-sleeping. Ah yes. The little devil of Attachment Parenting, which NY is currently spending mystery money (the mystery being- where does it come from? I thought the state was flat broke!) trying to campaign against. Radio and television ads are all over, trying to scare people into making their babies sleep flat on their backs in a crib, in a room away from parents.
The research that they use to conclude that co-sleeping (or "the family bed") is scary and causes SIDS includes data from accidental co-sleeping situations. Where geniuses decide to hit the bottle of wine and take a few drags from a crack pipe before using their child as a pillow for their drunken stupor. Oddly, the research doesn't include cases where babies are in their cribs and they pass away from SIDS.
True co-sleeping situations involve (as all parenting situations do) some foresight. Small babies need to be kept away from pillows, blankets, stuffed toys, people who are medicated or drunk, sharp objects, electrical devices, and for God's sake, spoiled pampered pets. Mattresses need to be pushed completely to the wall so that there are no gaps, and the bed needs to be secured so that bambinos aren't falling four feet to the ground. For some people, that means a securely attached bed rail; for others, that means putting the mattress directly onto the floor.
For us, it meant a couple of things- when Gianna was tiny, we had her in our Arms Reach Co-Sleeper, firmly attached to the bed. If she happened to fall asleep next to me, the farthest she could fall if she rolled away was two inches. Now that she's bigger and older, she makes herself at home for part of the night in the center 80% of the bed. Previously, Mr. Clarateaches' strange coma style of sleep made it dangerous to have her between us. Now, Gianna kicks and dances through the night, so the danger of overlay is really small. The danger of the three of us making a capital letter H is fairly high.
At this point, Gianna is sleeping for at least half the night in her own bed, and then moves in on our territory. She loves her own bed, and her room, and has slowly but surely gotten more inclined to be in her own space- the fear of co-sleeping children "never" leaving the family bed is just hilariously silly.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Baby-Wearing: AP Aerobics
Baby-Wearing is one of my favorite AP philosophies. By using the pouch sling, wrap, or ring sling, I was able to stay connected with Gianna while getting things accomplished.People who criticize attachment parenting philosophies often say that there is no time for anything else if you are constantly nursing or parenting to sleep or holding or interacting with a baby.
This is why slinging was used so many years ago. Let's hearken back to Cave Clara. There she is, pictured wearing her baby while she invents agriculture!
Ancient peoples from every part of the world wore their babies, when the oldsters of the tribe weren't babysitting. This was beneficial for many reasons- Cave Gianna (or Ancient Middle Eastern Gianna, or Mayan Gianna) wasn't on the ground, playing with snakes and scorpions. Also, wearing babies allowed for mothers to continue to contribute to their families and tribes while allowing babies to have access to their food (Mama milk, of course) and curbed the crying that could alert predators to a vulnerable situation.
Babies who are worn statistically cry less, have less reflux, and help tune parents in to who your child really is. The poor baby on the right, for example, is equally fascinated by the camera flash, and disgusted by her mommy's lack of proper mirror cleaning techniques. Wearing Gianna allowed her, from birth until recently, to be up where the action is. She was able to see things from a vantage point that allowed her to see beyond the ordinary low stroller view of legs and rear-ends. Not that I'm knocking strollers! But wearing ones baby even occasionally allows for a much broader educational experience, which relates to a higher comfort level with their surroundings.
Can you be an attached parent and NOT baby-wear? Gasp. Good heavens. Can you? Yes. Absolutely. Like everything else (and you'll see this pattern repeat when I discuss Co-Sleeping), as long as you are responding to your child in a caring manner, and adjusting the circumstances as necessar
y, you are still an attached parent if you don't baby-wear. When I had Gianna, the Cesarean incision made it difficult to wear her for several weeks. Currently, until I acquire a Mei Tei or other Asian-style carrier (better for carrying toddlers on ones back), Gianna doesn't fit too well in any of our current carriers. This didn't stop me last week when I plun
ked her in a ring sling and took her to "tea" in Lansing! (Wait a sec; this isn't a political blog...)The basics: If you are in pain, you are either wearing that particular sling or wrap incorrectly, or it is the wrong baby carrier for you, or you have some health issues that mean that you will have to find another way to transport your baby. The first two issues are easily solved by finding a local chapter of NINO- Nine In, Nine Out, an organization dedicated to helping families find the best way to wear their baby. Another place to look would be local midwives or birth centers. Now, thanks to Etsy and H
yena Cart and lots of little self-organized sites by crafty moms, there is no limit to the types and styles of slings and wraps one can buy. Please, please, PLEASE do yourself a favor and test different styles out beforehand, if you can. My favorites for the tiny baby stage are the Hotsling pouch and Moby wrap. As Gianna got older, I liked the Hotsling as a hip pouch (the brown and blue striped sling in the photos) and the ring sling, where she cruised through life on my hip. I even got some use out of a Guatamalan rebozo (a loosely, but strongly, woven length of cotton) in a hip carry.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Mah-Milk! Breastfeeding and Attachment Parenting
Breastfeeding is the second principle of Attachment Parenting. This is something that I believe instinctively nourishes a true, attached relationship, if done instinctively, and guided by both baby and maternal instincts.
Can one formula-feed and be an attached parent? Yes. Can one breastfeed and be a detached parent? Yes. Let me explain.
My first example of intuitive, attachment parenting was my mother, and the way she parented me and my siblings, but particularly my youngest brother. However, my first non-family example of attachment parenting was a very good friend I made while living in Chicagoland. At the time, she was a mother to two little boys. I was amazed at how calmly and naturally and instinctively she parented- she remained constant, consistent, very "in-tune" and receptive, no matter where we were or what we were doing. She may not have had any idea of the fact that her parenting style had a name, as it never came up when we talked. Her style was so intriguing, she helped to bolster my conviction that mothers truly do know what their baby needs, and that if we can quiet the baby-trainer noise and well-intended (yet, detached) advice surrounding us, that we can create and nurture a wonderful* relationship with our children. Yet, she did not breastfeed.
She was one of many mothers who have had poor advice and shoddy lactation advice tossed their way upon giving birth. While many are very caring and try to be supportive of the mothers in their care, maternity nurses learn only the very rudimentary basics of lactation during nursing school. They are also stretched very thin, time-wise, when it comes to what they do while at work. If three nurses are on a shift in a ward where nearly a dozen mothers and their babies are resting after various forms of labor, there is very little time to focus on a time-consuming task like supporting a proper latch (of a baby who likely has been as drugged as his mother was at birth). Plus, let's be realistic- the pen that the charge nurse uses to jot her reports (as well as the Post-It notes used to leave little reminders around their desks, as well as the clock ticking away on the wall) all have the name of various formula companies across their front.
I have said it before, and will say it again- going to a medical establishment, where extremely rich formula and pharmaceutical companies peddle their wares and leave their swag, and expecting anything other than a very commercially-laden, medical experience is like going into a Chinese restaurant and ordering a burger. You are not going to like what arrives on your plate.
My friend tried her darnedest, without the knowledge or support of someone skilled in trouble-shooting latch or supply issues. She tried hard with her second son, too. With both, she did end up formula feeding, as much as she did not want to. Persistence, and a good copy of So That's What They're For: Breastfeeding Basics by Janet Tamaro, paid off for my friend. Her third son was breastfed by a very happy and proud mama!
Let me make no bones about it- and this is not a judgement call, but a reiteration of what formula companies say themselves, if you care to read the fine print: Formula is a very poor substitute for breastmilk. It was originally intended as a way to help war orphans survive until they could eat solid food, and was never meant to be peddled as a "caring choice" for mothers. In the United States today, formula is offered as a wonderful idea for mothers who just simply decided that they were not going to breastfeed. Just because an option is offered, does not make it equal. There are actually a lot of fantastic articles and blogs on this very subject, and I could probably create a whole blog just about this subject and write in it every day. My point is- as poor of a food choice formula may be for babies, if a baby is fed while being held and spoken to, and responded to when cues for hunger are given, this is still attached.
So how can a breastfeeding mother be a detached parent? By following the ultra-anal, super operant conditioning ways of many of the self-professed "parenting experts" who write books aimed at selling "definites" to over-tired parents who already have sky-high expectations of themselves. Breastmilk is designed to zoom through babies rather quickly, so to expect a small infant to wait exactly two (or three or four) hours for another feed is both harmful to infants and harmful to mothers. The parents who fall for these peddlers of cookie-cutter robot kids who eat and sleep and poop to the tick of an arbitrary clock are not poor parents, either. Nor are they stupid. They are, however, very sucked into the idea that to be independent, and to function as a self-reliant adult someday, that babies need to be trained right now to do these things. The baby trainers in question (namely Gary Ezzo, but there are many others) offer some smooth-talking and glib pseudo-science (and even in Ezzo's case, very faulty and non-scriptural based theology) to try to back up what they are saying.
I always knew I would breastfeed. I didn't always know how difficult it would be at the beginning. The first two weeks were very miserable- while in the hospital, I had an IV in my left arm right where my elbow joint bends, thanks to the nervous teenage EMT who loaded me with toys on the transfer. Holding Gianna on top of a needle and tube in my arm was very painful. The after pains, coupled with recovering from abdominal surgery was excruciating, and nursing only made it more so, as the hormones involved in breastfeeding cause the uterus to contract down and return to normal. Most of my time nursing Gianna once my milk supply came in was spent with clenched teeth, and my feet constantly uncontrollably kicking.
I was DETERMINED to do this, though. I knew that there was an "after," which some women aren't really told. I knew that if I could just get over the initial hill, the rest would be better, and it truly was. At about two weeks, I battled a slight case of mastitis, but kept nursing Gianna right through it. At three weeks, when she hit her first true neonatal growth spurt and wanted to eat every 2.5 seconds, I settled right in and nursed her whenever she wanted to eat. I didn't crack or lose my mind, and she didn't turn into a spoiled, demanding brat- she simply grew, and then settled into a different pattern of feeding. Which changed a few weeks later, and then again another few weeks later, and so on. By nursing her "on demand," I was able to relate to her that I could cover her needs, and she didn't have to wonder about her livelihood- this in turn meant that she didn't need to panic when she became hungry. Win-win. Not to mention, I learned a very important parenting lesson- challenges do not last, and a baby's needs and demands change so often, that a very good mantra to have for both wonderful and not-so-wonderful times is: "This too shall pass."
* When I refer to "wonderful," let it be known that even in a "wonderful" parenting relationship, things like tantrums, crazy mommy days, screaming, crying, and sibling rivalry still happen. Why? Well, because we are all human, and these are the things that help us to learn and grow. Will our wonderfully attached children still sometimes do goofball things like flush watches down a toilet, attempt to mail a younger sibling to Abu Dhabi, loudly bray family secrets to all who care to listen in a post office, and perhaps wildly drive the family automobile smack into a fire hydrant? You bet. The goal is to make the "after" of these events something that all parties are proud of, in terms of how everyone handles themselves and one another.
Can one formula-feed and be an attached parent? Yes. Can one breastfeed and be a detached parent? Yes. Let me explain.
My first example of intuitive, attachment parenting was my mother, and the way she parented me and my siblings, but particularly my youngest brother. However, my first non-family example of attachment parenting was a very good friend I made while living in Chicagoland. At the time, she was a mother to two little boys. I was amazed at how calmly and naturally and instinctively she parented- she remained constant, consistent, very "in-tune" and receptive, no matter where we were or what we were doing. She may not have had any idea of the fact that her parenting style had a name, as it never came up when we talked. Her style was so intriguing, she helped to bolster my conviction that mothers truly do know what their baby needs, and that if we can quiet the baby-trainer noise and well-intended (yet, detached) advice surrounding us, that we can create and nurture a wonderful* relationship with our children. Yet, she did not breastfeed.
She was one of many mothers who have had poor advice and shoddy lactation advice tossed their way upon giving birth. While many are very caring and try to be supportive of the mothers in their care, maternity nurses learn only the very rudimentary basics of lactation during nursing school. They are also stretched very thin, time-wise, when it comes to what they do while at work. If three nurses are on a shift in a ward where nearly a dozen mothers and their babies are resting after various forms of labor, there is very little time to focus on a time-consuming task like supporting a proper latch (of a baby who likely has been as drugged as his mother was at birth). Plus, let's be realistic- the pen that the charge nurse uses to jot her reports (as well as the Post-It notes used to leave little reminders around their desks, as well as the clock ticking away on the wall) all have the name of various formula companies across their front.
I have said it before, and will say it again- going to a medical establishment, where extremely rich formula and pharmaceutical companies peddle their wares and leave their swag, and expecting anything other than a very commercially-laden, medical experience is like going into a Chinese restaurant and ordering a burger. You are not going to like what arrives on your plate.
My friend tried her darnedest, without the knowledge or support of someone skilled in trouble-shooting latch or supply issues. She tried hard with her second son, too. With both, she did end up formula feeding, as much as she did not want to. Persistence, and a good copy of So That's What They're For: Breastfeeding Basics by Janet Tamaro, paid off for my friend. Her third son was breastfed by a very happy and proud mama!
Let me make no bones about it- and this is not a judgement call, but a reiteration of what formula companies say themselves, if you care to read the fine print: Formula is a very poor substitute for breastmilk. It was originally intended as a way to help war orphans survive until they could eat solid food, and was never meant to be peddled as a "caring choice" for mothers. In the United States today, formula is offered as a wonderful idea for mothers who just simply decided that they were not going to breastfeed. Just because an option is offered, does not make it equal. There are actually a lot of fantastic articles and blogs on this very subject, and I could probably create a whole blog just about this subject and write in it every day. My point is- as poor of a food choice formula may be for babies, if a baby is fed while being held and spoken to, and responded to when cues for hunger are given, this is still attached.
So how can a breastfeeding mother be a detached parent? By following the ultra-anal, super operant conditioning ways of many of the self-professed "parenting experts" who write books aimed at selling "definites" to over-tired parents who already have sky-high expectations of themselves. Breastmilk is designed to zoom through babies rather quickly, so to expect a small infant to wait exactly two (or three or four) hours for another feed is both harmful to infants and harmful to mothers. The parents who fall for these peddlers of cookie-cutter robot kids who eat and sleep and poop to the tick of an arbitrary clock are not poor parents, either. Nor are they stupid. They are, however, very sucked into the idea that to be independent, and to function as a self-reliant adult someday, that babies need to be trained right now to do these things. The baby trainers in question (namely Gary Ezzo, but there are many others) offer some smooth-talking and glib pseudo-science (and even in Ezzo's case, very faulty and non-scriptural based theology) to try to back up what they are saying.
I always knew I would breastfeed. I didn't always know how difficult it would be at the beginning. The first two weeks were very miserable- while in the hospital, I had an IV in my left arm right where my elbow joint bends, thanks to the nervous teenage EMT who loaded me with toys on the transfer. Holding Gianna on top of a needle and tube in my arm was very painful. The after pains, coupled with recovering from abdominal surgery was excruciating, and nursing only made it more so, as the hormones involved in breastfeeding cause the uterus to contract down and return to normal. Most of my time nursing Gianna once my milk supply came in was spent with clenched teeth, and my feet constantly uncontrollably kicking.
I was DETERMINED to do this, though. I knew that there was an "after," which some women aren't really told. I knew that if I could just get over the initial hill, the rest would be better, and it truly was. At about two weeks, I battled a slight case of mastitis, but kept nursing Gianna right through it. At three weeks, when she hit her first true neonatal growth spurt and wanted to eat every 2.5 seconds, I settled right in and nursed her whenever she wanted to eat. I didn't crack or lose my mind, and she didn't turn into a spoiled, demanding brat- she simply grew, and then settled into a different pattern of feeding. Which changed a few weeks later, and then again another few weeks later, and so on. By nursing her "on demand," I was able to relate to her that I could cover her needs, and she didn't have to wonder about her livelihood- this in turn meant that she didn't need to panic when she became hungry. Win-win. Not to mention, I learned a very important parenting lesson- challenges do not last, and a baby's needs and demands change so often, that a very good mantra to have for both wonderful and not-so-wonderful times is: "This too shall pass."
* When I refer to "wonderful," let it be known that even in a "wonderful" parenting relationship, things like tantrums, crazy mommy days, screaming, crying, and sibling rivalry still happen. Why? Well, because we are all human, and these are the things that help us to learn and grow. Will our wonderfully attached children still sometimes do goofball things like flush watches down a toilet, attempt to mail a younger sibling to Abu Dhabi, loudly bray family secrets to all who care to listen in a post office, and perhaps wildly drive the family automobile smack into a fire hydrant? You bet. The goal is to make the "after" of these events something that all parties are proud of, in terms of how everyone handles themselves and one another.
Saturday, April 04, 2009
I Want You To Want Me- Birth Bonding
What did I say in the last post about NOT running to a trusty, well-thumbed-through tome of parenting wisdom? To write these blogs, I actually DO need to go grab my copy of The Attachment Parenting Book by William Sears, MD and Martha Sears, RN. Trust me that it is not necessarily that we "follow" this book, or even agree with all of Dr. Sears' advice (we do not), but in order to wander through the principles of "AP" (Attachment Parenting), I need to see what they are! The last time I read this book was during one of those late third trimester sleepless nights- where I was so tired I couldn't sleep, and my bladder was so compressed that I practically lived in the bathroom. Needless to say, I have none of these principles memorized, but do have an understanding that I nodded through the book saying, "Yup, yup, uh-huh...okay...sure..." Then, Gianna was born, and this book was shoved into a corner where spiders built their webs, and dust bunnies multiplied profusely.
Let's start at the very beginning.
BIRTH BONDING
Dr. Sears heavily encourages the first few hours after a birth to be undisturbed, as these hours are sacred to the bonding experience of the new family. Some people, driven to hysterical bouts of the "Always-and-Nevers," think that this means that if, for any reason, the baby and mother are separated in the first hour, then all hope is lost and the bonding ship has sailed. Let's all stop and remind ourselves that we human beings outlasted the wild beasts and moved on to bigger and better things. McMansions and Youtube, especially. We can still allow our hormones and our babies' natural instincts to glue us together.
Babies know their mamas, who know their babies. Ideally, everyone would have an undisturbed birth- that is, no unnecessary pokings and proddings, no injections of narcotics or 'caine derivatives, and no artificial hormones. Lights would be low, and voices calm (with the exception of the birthing mother, who can make any sound she pleases, thanks very much) and immediately after birthing their baby or babies, the new little family can immediately enjoy each others company without immediate scrubbing of vernix, and all of the pediatric (dare I type it) bullshit that ends up poking a minutes-old infant with holes and gooping up its eyes.
Wishes, as a local lawyer likes to say on his local commercials, do not do dishes. Even when the above birth was the original plan, plans sometimes change. Even when those plans change, and a birthing mother suddenly needs medical attention, the bonding can still take place. It does take a little thought beforehand, and some finessing of the "system."
Here's what we did: Our story begins about 35 hours into labor. My water had broken about 17.5 hours prior, I had pushed for about four hours, Gianna had been crowned and visible for about two of those hours, and we (the midwives, Mr. Clarateaches and my own hallucinating self) had just decided to call an ambulance to take us to the hospital. Instantly, my mind raced- I had no idea what the outcome was going to be, but doula experience told me that surgeons ten miles away were already lovingly caressing their scalpels in anticipation of my arrival. I understood Michigan birth laws- the only single solitary thing legally required was the metabolic "5 Screen" blood test- all else (Vitamin K, erythromyacin, vaccinations, circumcision, tire rotation, oil, lube and filter) was at the parent's consent.
As I've written in the past, I arrived at the hospital to an outstanding team of all female surgeons, nurses, and techs. All I remember of them were their expressions as I hoarsely screamed my list of "Do NOT Consents-" I did NOT consent to ANY of the above optional accoutrements. The only thing they did not acquiesce to, to my heartache, was putting the baby onto my chest after being surgically removed. For twenty-five long, agonizing minutes, while I was having all of my guts randomly assigned new placement in my body ("Bladder, you take Left Lung's place. Lungs, you get in the back. Lower Intestines, this is a snug fit, so I want all of you to squeeze in..."), Gianna was being examined and wrapped up about six feet from my head. Fortunately for our little triad of crazy, Mr. Clarateaches could (and did) stand by while the only male of the night, the pediatrician, gave a cursory exam of the "full-term neonate, female" and declared her A-OK before scurrying back to his natural lair. And then, she was back with me, where she would stay for our remaining time in that prison of a hospital. We bonded immediately- we were completely and totally immersed in each other, and the twenty-five minutes apart didn't come close to mattering. Was it ideal? Was it "undisturbed?" Nope. But we made it work because I had to have it work. I needed to bond to my baby to be able to function. I gave myself no other option.
In the beginning, there we were.
Let's start at the very beginning.
BIRTH BONDING
Dr. Sears heavily encourages the first few hours after a birth to be undisturbed, as these hours are sacred to the bonding experience of the new family. Some people, driven to hysterical bouts of the "Always-and-Nevers," think that this means that if, for any reason, the baby and mother are separated in the first hour, then all hope is lost and the bonding ship has sailed. Let's all stop and remind ourselves that we human beings outlasted the wild beasts and moved on to bigger and better things. McMansions and Youtube, especially. We can still allow our hormones and our babies' natural instincts to glue us together.
Babies know their mamas, who know their babies. Ideally, everyone would have an undisturbed birth- that is, no unnecessary pokings and proddings, no injections of narcotics or 'caine derivatives, and no artificial hormones. Lights would be low, and voices calm (with the exception of the birthing mother, who can make any sound she pleases, thanks very much) and immediately after birthing their baby or babies, the new little family can immediately enjoy each others company without immediate scrubbing of vernix, and all of the pediatric (dare I type it) bullshit that ends up poking a minutes-old infant with holes and gooping up its eyes.
Wishes, as a local lawyer likes to say on his local commercials, do not do dishes. Even when the above birth was the original plan, plans sometimes change. Even when those plans change, and a birthing mother suddenly needs medical attention, the bonding can still take place. It does take a little thought beforehand, and some finessing of the "system."
Here's what we did: Our story begins about 35 hours into labor. My water had broken about 17.5 hours prior, I had pushed for about four hours, Gianna had been crowned and visible for about two of those hours, and we (the midwives, Mr. Clarateaches and my own hallucinating self) had just decided to call an ambulance to take us to the hospital. Instantly, my mind raced- I had no idea what the outcome was going to be, but doula experience told me that surgeons ten miles away were already lovingly caressing their scalpels in anticipation of my arrival. I understood Michigan birth laws- the only single solitary thing legally required was the metabolic "5 Screen" blood test- all else (Vitamin K, erythromyacin, vaccinations, circumcision, tire rotation, oil, lube and filter) was at the parent's consent.
As I've written in the past, I arrived at the hospital to an outstanding team of all female surgeons, nurses, and techs. All I remember of them were their expressions as I hoarsely screamed my list of "Do NOT Consents-" I did NOT consent to ANY of the above optional accoutrements. The only thing they did not acquiesce to, to my heartache, was putting the baby onto my chest after being surgically removed. For twenty-five long, agonizing minutes, while I was having all of my guts randomly assigned new placement in my body ("Bladder, you take Left Lung's place. Lungs, you get in the back. Lower Intestines, this is a snug fit, so I want all of you to squeeze in..."), Gianna was being examined and wrapped up about six feet from my head. Fortunately for our little triad of crazy, Mr. Clarateaches could (and did) stand by while the only male of the night, the pediatrician, gave a cursory exam of the "full-term neonate, female" and declared her A-OK before scurrying back to his natural lair. And then, she was back with me, where she would stay for our remaining time in that prison of a hospital. We bonded immediately- we were completely and totally immersed in each other, and the twenty-five minutes apart didn't come close to mattering. Was it ideal? Was it "undisturbed?" Nope. But we made it work because I had to have it work. I needed to bond to my baby to be able to function. I gave myself no other option.
In the beginning, there we were.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
What ARE We Doing?
I feel rather blessed. I rarely have people question our parenting style in a malicious fashion. I have fielded questions about why I baby-wear, why I breastfeed for so long, and why we don't make Gianna sleep in her own bed. Those are usually curiosity, and as I don't make general proclamations about many of our tricks, there are probably a lot of things that are unknown, and therefore not inquired upon.
Every family has to find its own rhythm and flow. It's said so many times, but bears repeating- what works for one family is unique to that family, and dependent on its current conditions. Add a child, or remove a job, or sprinkle in any other life-changing event, and methods and manners of operation need to be reassessed.
We don't technically follow a leader. We're not people who instantly run to some well-thumbed through book at the onset of a new developmental twitch to try to figure out what to do. I like to think that we parent instinctively- that is, that we view what Gianna is doing in the light of her environment and her developmental stage. How we generally operate does seem to look somewhat like Dr. Sears' Attachment Parenting. So far, it seems to be creating a joyful and intelligent little girl, with parents who are sometimes frustrated, sometimes overwhelmed, but always laughing. And, always amazed.
In an effort to prod myself to post a little more, I'm going to try to take some of the principles of Attachment Parenting, and explain how we've used them, or possibly how we've had to tweak them. I know like I know like I KNOW that if we would have done things differently, say, followed a "baby trainer," or sleep-trained, we would not have the child we do today.
I want to make a preemptive distinction before I begin: there is a huge difference between saying that "X method" or "Baby Trainer Y" is faulty for whatever reason, and saying that someone is a poor parent for using these methods. Parenting is a hard row to hoe, and many baby trainers are very convincing (I would be too, if I wanted to sell my books!) With the next few blogs, I do not intend to tear down another mother. If you get something from what I write, beautiful. If you get nothing, well, no skin off my back. There is truly something to be said for separating the wheat from the chaff in terms of what will work for you. I do urge you to be honest with yourself about what is "working:" if you have an eerily quiet baby who is not very active, and doesn't really explore, but follows a precise schedule made by a best-selling parenting book and gives you a fairly easy life, who is benefiting? Is this truly "working?"
When I was pregnant with Gianna, I met a woman with a daughter who was 6 months old. I never saw this baby out of its car seat, even for a feed- the mom simply stuck a bottle into the baby's mouth with one hand, and functioned without looking at the baby with the rest of her body. She gave me the advice of- "Make sure you get time for you as much as possible- I just stick M----- in front of Baby Einstein- it's very educational, you know- and I get so much done. I barely have to do anything!" I never saw the baby cry, or move at all, really. Its placid gaze gave me heartburn and I vowed to never do whatever it was that made this woman's child such a mannequin. I didn't. Stay tuned for what did work, and continues to work today.
Every family has to find its own rhythm and flow. It's said so many times, but bears repeating- what works for one family is unique to that family, and dependent on its current conditions. Add a child, or remove a job, or sprinkle in any other life-changing event, and methods and manners of operation need to be reassessed.
We don't technically follow a leader. We're not people who instantly run to some well-thumbed through book at the onset of a new developmental twitch to try to figure out what to do. I like to think that we parent instinctively- that is, that we view what Gianna is doing in the light of her environment and her developmental stage. How we generally operate does seem to look somewhat like Dr. Sears' Attachment Parenting. So far, it seems to be creating a joyful and intelligent little girl, with parents who are sometimes frustrated, sometimes overwhelmed, but always laughing. And, always amazed.
In an effort to prod myself to post a little more, I'm going to try to take some of the principles of Attachment Parenting, and explain how we've used them, or possibly how we've had to tweak them. I know like I know like I KNOW that if we would have done things differently, say, followed a "baby trainer," or sleep-trained, we would not have the child we do today.
I want to make a preemptive distinction before I begin: there is a huge difference between saying that "X method" or "Baby Trainer Y" is faulty for whatever reason, and saying that someone is a poor parent for using these methods. Parenting is a hard row to hoe, and many baby trainers are very convincing (I would be too, if I wanted to sell my books!) With the next few blogs, I do not intend to tear down another mother. If you get something from what I write, beautiful. If you get nothing, well, no skin off my back. There is truly something to be said for separating the wheat from the chaff in terms of what will work for you. I do urge you to be honest with yourself about what is "working:" if you have an eerily quiet baby who is not very active, and doesn't really explore, but follows a precise schedule made by a best-selling parenting book and gives you a fairly easy life, who is benefiting? Is this truly "working?"
When I was pregnant with Gianna, I met a woman with a daughter who was 6 months old. I never saw this baby out of its car seat, even for a feed- the mom simply stuck a bottle into the baby's mouth with one hand, and functioned without looking at the baby with the rest of her body. She gave me the advice of- "Make sure you get time for you as much as possible- I just stick M----- in front of Baby Einstein- it's very educational, you know- and I get so much done. I barely have to do anything!" I never saw the baby cry, or move at all, really. Its placid gaze gave me heartburn and I vowed to never do whatever it was that made this woman's child such a mannequin. I didn't. Stay tuned for what did work, and continues to work today.
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