Thursday, January 24, 2013

It's probably a growth spurt

It’s a growth spurt. She’s teething. She’s just tired. She needs her diaper changed. She needs to poop. She’s hungry. She wants to be held. She’s frustrated because she can’t reach the toy. She wants Mommy. She wants Daddy.

No one tells you how helpless you’ll feel as a parent. Apparently, my daughter can’t actually tell me what she needs. Who knew?! Being pre-verbal makes things more difficult than the baby books would have you believe.

Sometimes my daughter cries. Or screams. Or moans. Or pulls on her ear. Or tries to talk to me. Or she grunts. Or she drools. Or she sticks something in her mouth. She rubs her eyes. She yawns. Sometimes she takes naps. Sometimes those naps are 30 minutes long. Other times those naps are three and a half hours long.

The baby books tell you these are all signs of something, and that different cries mean different things. I think the baby books are lying.

Being a parent is like trying to solve one of those logic puzzles, only with less information:

Clue #1: Eleanor is crying.

Clue #2: There is no Clue #2.

Absent an ability to use logic or rational thought, a problem often compounded by a screaming baby, you give up and start guessing. Sometimes you get it right, and sometimes you don’t. And what’s frustrating is that even when you do get it right, that doesn’t necessarily mean your baby stops screaming. If she’s tired, and you convince her to take a nap, that doesn’t mean that the nap won’t end, suddenly and without warning, in a new round of screaming 30 minutes later, even though you spent 30 minutes trying to get her to take said nap.

Welcome to parenthood.

One of the hardest lessons I’ve had to learn in the last seven months is that my daughter is a human, an individual with a separate identity from mine. I know how obvious that sounds, and how stupid I sound for not realizing it more readily, but it’s true.

Chaos reigns with us humans, it seems. Sometimes we’re hungry. Sometimes we aren’t. Some days we sleep well. Some days we don’t. And sometimes we’re grumpy and we can’t explain why. This is true for babies, too, I think.

It’s hard to realize that babies are humans and they experience everything we do (while also cutting teeth -- can you imagine how painful that must be?). But babies can’t tell us about it. So we do the best we can.

I’m not a patient person, and I am particularly impatient when I don’t understand something. I feel like I’m a pretty sharp guy, but I’m constantly stumped by the “signs” my daughter exhibits that supposedly communicate what she needs. That infuriates me. I get so frustrated when I can’t help her, when I can’t “fix” the problem. If only she could tell me what she needs!

Yesterday, Eleanor only took a 35 minute nap in the afternoon. She woke up from that nap at 1:15, and she refused to take another nap until we put her in bed at 6:30. She was miserable, and so was I.

I texted my wife and called my mom, trying to talk through my frustration. I was so upset. I mean, my daughter is screaming and I can’t help her and I’m so tired and all I need is a break from dealing with her. The people who love me listened to my feelings of helplessness, but there was nothing they could do -- my wife was at work and my mom was 70 miles away. They couldn’t meet my needs, even though they love me.

Oh.

They couldn’t solve my problem, any more than I could solve my daughter’s. They could love me. And they could listen and provide encouragement and comfort. But that’s it.


That’s a tough lesson to learn.

Call it evolution or God’s plan, but being helpless is something you have to learn to live with as a parent. Maybe one reason babies take so long to acquire language is so parents can learn this lesson. Sometimes there’s nothing you can do to solve your child’s problem, in the moment. But you can love your child, listen and provide encouragement and comfort. In the long run, you hope that your best is enough in most situations.

God grant me the patience to accept my lack of control. And may God grant me the understanding that the love I give my daughter is sometimes the only thing I have to give.

Tuesday, January 22, 2013

I Have a Dream

Yesterday was the 50th anniversary of the I Have A Dream speech as well as the 57th Inauguration of a US President.  What a glorious day!  Even if you aren’t a fan of the president’s policies, it was a glorious day for democracy and for the US.  What I heard from the Inaugural Address harkened back a bit to I Have A Dream, but more so to the Sermon on the Mount.  “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.  Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.  Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.  Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy.  Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.  Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.  Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.  Blessed are you when people revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account.  Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven.”
President Obama spoke of equality: equality achieved at some levels, but not completely.  He spoke of the desire for everyone to feel and be equal.  Everyone deserves respect and kindness and love.  I couldn’t help but think of those who are poor in spirit, because they so want a child to hold and love.  I couldn’t help but think of those who mourn for the loss of a child, be it a miscarriage or stillborn birth.  I couldn’t help but think of the merciful, the caretakers for those who struggle and mourn. 
Do you see yourself amidst the poor in spirit, those who hunger for righteousness, the merciful, or the peacemakers?  Do you feel persecuted because your family doesn’t measure up to society’s view of the perfect family – two moms, single parent, one child, 5 children, aunts and grandmothers pitching in?
I have a dream.  I have a dream that one day everyone who wants to be a parent is one.  I have a dream that every parent who has a child will embrace them with love, patience and understanding.  I have a dream that no more children die before their parents do.  I have a dream that every family feels complete just the way it is.  I have a dream that our society will reach out and take care of those who have struggles along this parenthood journey.  I have a dream that words like miscarriage and postpartum depression are completely understood and that each community wraps their arms around the families who deal with these issues.  I have a dream that every family has the love and joy that I have in my family.
Let us continue to pray for that dream or whatever yours may be.

Here is my pastoral prayer from Sunday.
God of Justice and Might, who raised the meek and the righteous.
Thank you for this day. Thank you for the opportunity to praise your name and lift up each other.  Thank you for helping us overcome each day – our trials, our tribulations, our sin.
Lord, help us to love each other, care for each other, fight for justice for each other.
Lord, be with those who are in need of prayer.  Be with those in need of food and shelter.  Be with those in need of you.
In the name of Jesus, Amen. 


Lauren Boyd
Director of Programming and Membership at PHUMC
Partner to Candi and Mother to Miller who is 5

Monday, January 14, 2013

Lessons relearned, or It really does take a village (and other cliches that are true)

Everyone sucks in a vacuum. (Enjoy the pun -- it didn’t occur to me until I actually wrote that sentence that it even was a pun...For what it’s worth, I think parent brain must be worse than pregnancy brain).

I mean it, by the way. I have always been my biggest critic, in everything I have ever done. And despite everyone who tells me that I have the happiest, smiliest baby they have ever seen (and I am not exaggerating), I constantly engage in epic battle with myself -- we’re talking World of Warcraft levels of Sturm und Drang waged in my head -- about how I am doing as a father.

It should be noted: We spend a lot of time together, as I am a stay-at-home dad.*

(*Explanation: This is by choice. I did not lose my job or get sick or anything dramatic. My wife and I always agreed that if we could make it work financially, one of us would stay home when we had a baby. I used to be a teacher, and my wife makes more than twice what I made in that profession. So I’m the lucky one. It really was a no-brainer :)

The hand-wringing and head-banging usually happens when it’s just me and my daughter, hanging out. Or while my daughter entertains herself while I do laundry. Or while I prepare her food. Or while I install cloth diaper sprayers that connect to my toilet. Or while I steal away to reorganize the garage, hoping that the baby monitor stays in range where I can hear when she inevitably wakes from her nap in the middle of my attempt to accomplish the most menial task that is impossible when she is awake.

During the first six months of my daughter’s life, I spent way too much time defining myself as a crappy parent for everything I was doing wrong. I wasn’t holding her enough. I wasn’t giving her enough tummy time. I wasn’t talking to her enough. I wasn’t paying enough attention to her. I wasn’t helping her develop good enough sleep habits. She’s crying because I’m not mommy and she hates me and I’m not meeting her needs -- I can tell by the way she looks at me! And I suck. I’m the worst father in the world.

Then I realized that everyone sucks. When they’re on their own. When there’s no other feedback than the echo chamber inside your own head, you can do a lot of damage to yourself. It took me too long to realize that when other people tell you that your baby looks happy and healthy, you should take that, accept it, and realize that you’re doing the best you can.

I love my daughter. And I know that she knows that I love her (as much as her seven-month-old brain is capable of understanding that). I know because of the smiles she gives me when I pick her up out of her crib in the mornings. I know because she calls me Da-Da-Da. I know because of the joy she brings to other people, and the joy they bring to her. My mom tries to come up and visit from Colorado Springs once a week, and my daughter is ecstatic. She laughs and smiles, and she waves her arms around in happiness whenever Grandma comes over. I know she loves me because she smiles at strangers and she plays with our friends from church. She feels safe because my wife and I meet her needs and love her with all our hearts, even when we screw up.

I’m so thankful for the opportunity to stay at home with my daughter, but it is far harder than I could have imagined. I didn’t expect to have sleep issues and experience the level of anxiety that I do about pretty much everything related to my daughter. But I have realized that other people -- friends, family, church members -- are happy to help. It gives them joy to be a part of my daughter’s life. She learns from everyone who interacts with her. Everyone makes different kinds of googly eyes at her. They play with her differently. They say different things and say things differently than I do. Me? I constantly ask her questions that she never answers. I’m sure she gets tired of that.

It does take a village. A note to expectant parents: This cliche matters. Every child -- EVERY CHILD -- should grow up in a community that surrounds them with love and engages them with joy. I am so thankful that my daughter has that, through our family, friends and church.

So it may not be Thanksgiving, but I am giving thanks right now. My family couldn’t do this without you. My daughter doesn’t know how to say it yet, but I know she would say it if she could:

Thank you.

Thursday, January 10, 2013

Micromanaging Maternal Instincts

(Guest Post from Rosie Connolly)

Just before I found out I was pregnant, my friend Heather gave birth to her son. I was so grateful for her willingness to share her thoughts and experiences, especially since she’s so frank. I wanted to know, from her first 6 weeks as a mom, what she would have liked someone to tell her from the beginning.

“Breastfeeding is hard. It’s hard and it hurts. They tell you it isn’t going to hurt, but it does.”

I filed her thought away, and I listened to all the doulas and lactation consultants tell me the standard line—breastfeeding shouldn’t hurt. If it does, pop the baby off and relatch.

If only this had been the worst of my breastfeeding problems.

After a short labor with an exhausting amount of pushing, they placed my new son, Diego, on my chest. I started at my alien, cone-headed baby as the nurses scrubbed him up and listened to his heart and lungs, and my midwife fussed over me. I just stared. It was probably one of the most surreal experiences of my life, having this little creature crying on my chest. I didn’t get it—the connection, the maternal understanding—until a while later when he finally latched on.

Maybe it was the adrenaline. Maybe it was the fact that I hadn’t slept in 48 hours. Maybe something worked out right that first time. But it didn’t hurt.

Unfortunately, the rest of the time in the hospital was not spent in breastfeeding comfort. Latch. Ouch. Pop. Relatch. Ouch. Pop. Frustrated baby. Frustrated momma. When I asked the nurses for help, they just shoved his open mouth onto me. When the lactation consultant asked me how much it hurt on a scale of 1 to 10, I said, oh, maybe a 4, and showed her the huge blood blister on my nipple. Her response was, at this stage, if it only hurts at about a 4, just let the baby nurse. It’ll get better, and he needs the practice.

As a woman who frequently suffers from migraines and was stupid enough to get a tattoo on her foot, I am quite familiar with pain. Perhaps my scale of 1 to 10 equals someone else’s 1 to 50. I don’t know. Nonetheless, I gritted my teeth, continued to nurse, and took my baby home on Wednesday afternoon.

At the Friday appointment with the pediatrician (who wasn’t our regular pediatrician), Diego had lost more than ten percent of his birth weight. The pediatrician furrowed his brow and sent spasms of anxiety through my sleep-deprived mind. The nurse gave me ideas on how to increase milk supply, and they made us an appointment with their on-staff lactation consultant for the next day. She spent an hour with us on Saturday. She watched. She gave me tips on how to open his jaw wider. She showed my husband, Jose, how he could help. She pointed out that Diego’s jaw was uneven. She suggested he might have a tiny tongue-tie. But, ultimately, what she taught me to do—which no one at the hospital had done—was teach me how to teach Diego to nurse.

On Sunday, we went in for a weight check. He had gained 10 ounces, and had almost returned to his original birth weight.

With a sigh of relief, we went about our lives. Jose and I juggled ways to get me at least one four-hour sleep cycle—as recommended by the lactation consultant to help milk supply. I spent my nights awake, watching terrible TV, as my son nursed every two hours overnight, and then slept from 8am to noon. My mother came to support us. Everything seemed fine.

Ten days later we went back to the pediatrician (I don’t remember why). The first thing the pediatrician (yet another in the practice) noticed was that our son had gained an average of 2–2.5 ounces a day in 10 days. “That’s too much,” he said. “We need to slow him down.”

Back to the on-staff lactation consultant. She gave me tips on how to reduce supply: peppermint tea, block feeding, pacifier use. And she sent us home.

I did these things. My mother left and Jose’s parents arrived. They spent almost their entire two weeks with us passing around a crying baby while, between naps and feeding sessions, I hid in my room, trying not to cry along with my baby.

After another ten days, we returned to the pediatrician’s office again. In ten days my son had gained one-tenth of an ounce. He had gone from “gaining too much” to not enough. Not nearly enough.

With my sweet mother-in-law at my side, I almost burst into tears. All I wanted to do was feed my son, help him grow and thrive and be a happy baby. I couldn’t even do that. I had continued to suffer through clogged ducts, blisters and tight latches, frustrated baby wails as I would try to relatch him. Add to that the mental beating I gave myself daily because I either fed my baby too much or too little as my body developed into a glorified milk factory.

I needed a second opinion, or I would lose my mind. I called Bloomington Area Birth Services (bloomingtonbirth.org), where we had taken our birthing classes, and made an appointment with one of their lactation consultants. I met with her the day after my in-laws left, and told her my story. She listened with rapt attention, and then sat in silence on the floor, stunned.

When she recovered her senses, she told me something that no one had bothered to mention, through our birth classes, from the pediatrician’s office, in the breastfeeding books, or anywhere:

Babies will not eat too much.

Babies aren’t like adults who go out to dinner, have an appetizer and a salad, are already full before their entrĂ©e comes but still eat it AND dessert, and then sit back and unbutton their pants. Babies eat until they are full and then they stop. There’s no reason to heap on that extra helping of milk after the first helping of milk. It’s not chocolate milk, after all.


Then she suggested my new plan: to have no plan. Stop letting others micromanage my instincts. Feed my baby the way that felt right to me. And stop worrying about if he’s eating too much or not enough. He’ll take what he needs and no more. But let him get what he needs.

And so we did. He nursed when he wanted to—which was a lot—and he stopped when he was done. He continued to gain an average of 2 ounces a day for several months. But the constant crying that prevailed during my in-laws’ visit almost entirely ceased. And a happy baby emerged.

My son will be ten months in the middle of January. His jaw is still uneven, and so I still get the occasional blister, but I have one of the happiest babies I’ve ever met. And, by the way, he’s HUGE. At his nine-month appointment, he was in the 92nd percentile for weight and 90th percentile for height. The only problem I see? It’s exhausting to carry around a 24lb infant.

After all of this, I understand what Heather meant when she said breastfeeding is hard. But just after Diego was born, she also said, “Stick with it. If you want to breastfeed, then breastfeed. Through all the pain and frustration, it’s one of the most rewarding experiences of motherhood, and you’re the only person who can do that for him.”

I couldn’t have said it better myself.


Rosie Connolly is a mom to 10-month-old Diego. She lives in Irving, TX with her husband Jose, Diego, and two jealous cats.


Wednesday, January 9, 2013

Decisions and Resolutions

Yesterday, I received a phone call.  “Do you want to have another child?  You have 48 hours to decide.”  Well, that’s not exactly what she said, but she did tell me that there was more “stuff” available from my son’s donor if we wanted it.  We had 48 hours to decide.  Wow.  What do you say to that?  We love our son so much.  He is amazing!  Would we love to have another Miller? Yes.  Would we love a daughter?  Yes. Yes.  Do we want the chaos that comes with more children? Um.  Do we have the funds to support another child?  No. 
I always wanted at least two children.  I wanted a table full of muddy, sticky, funny faces.  I wanted a big car and big car trips.  I wanted enough money to take care of all of us in style.  I wanted, I wanted, I wanted.  I met the love of my life in 2001.  We committed to be forever and start a family.  We love our careers and we love each other.  We chose to take parenthood one step at a time and we continue to do that.  We had one successful birth (although I could have died a few hours after when I was bleeding out) and a healthy, fabulous child.  We didn’t want to rush into another pregnancy and child until we got to know this one and figured out this parenting thing a bit.  Well, two and half years later we did try again. Twice.  It didn’t “take” so we had a serious conversation about our future.  Did we want to spend money we didn’t have and take emotional time away from our child and each other trying to get pregnant?  We decided – no.  It was a really hard conversation and decision, but we love being a family of three.  Now that he can ride his bike, tie his shoes and entertain himself on a Saturday morning when we are still in bed – we can take him anywhere!  We just flew to DC for five days and had a blast together.  Have one child – will travel. 
We are so content, well I was until yesterday’s phone call.  It made me remember my dream of a big family and the picturesque life I thought I’d have (secretly, no one has that, I’m just saying.)  I spent much of the day reminding myself of our decision two and half years ago and why we made it.  My partner sent me a text when I told of her of the call, “We’re good though, right?”  I replied, “Totally.”  We are good.  We’re really good.  I get asked, “When are you going to have another one?”  or “So this is your first?”  For a myriad of reasons, he is our first and only.
So my New Year’s Resolution or one of them is to continue to love, embrace our family of three and to not put us back on the waiting list if more "stuff" becomes available at a later date.I believe God will give us a table full of muddy, sticky, funny faces – they just won’t live under our roof. 
Jeremiah 29:11 – I know the plans I have in mind for you, declares the Lord; they are plans for peace, not disaster, to give you a future filled with hope.

Lauren Boyd
Director of Programming and Membership at PHUMC
Partner to Candi and Mother to Miller who is 5