Parenting and Judgment - Jennifer's story

My parenting journey to date can be described in one word…judged.

My partner, Jamie, and I had been together for 8 years and finally agreed to take the plunge into parenthood. Due to a number of reasons, we chose adoption and due to our finances, we chose foster care adoption. So after MAPP classes, home development workers and lots of paperwork, we were certified as we simultaneously accepted the placement of a 10 day old little boy. He was tiny, red-headed, beautiful, and suffering withdrawals from prenatal exposures. We were told to go to the NICU to be “trained.” My mom came in town to help and she went with me to the hospital. The “training” was the infant CPR and SIDS videos that new mothers watch before discharge. We held him and fed him and left the hospital. We headed to Wal-Mart later that day to meet the social worker and get his clothing allowance. 

The social worker walked in and said, “Don’t get too attached. He is going to a family placement.”  

Sucker punched, I went home in a daze. My mom started offering suggestions about not taking him, letting him go to another family, and the dangers of falling in love and then losing him. It was too late. I loved that boy the minute I held him and ultimately, Jamie and I decided to keep going.   

All three of us went to the hospital the following afternoon to sign the discharge papers and bring him home. This is when we learned that he had some heart problems and would come home on heart failure watch and seizure watch. This is when we received a chart to score his withdrawals so we would know if/when to rush him back to the ER. It was scary and intimidating and I was in love. My mom was not; however, and started again with the” letting him go” talks. At one point, she let me know that I had “no idea how to care for a healthy baby much less a sick one” and “what would I do if he quit breathing.” 

I had been judged….. and I was found lacking.

We went home. My mom left shortly after. We started parenting. And now 18 months later, we are waiting on a court date to finalize our little boy’s adoption. He has brought us so much joy.

And weaved into his first year and a half has been many more lessons about judgment.

*He laid his head on my chest in those first days home, listened to my heart beat and noticed my unfamiliar smell. He judged me…I was deemed NOT his biological mother. We started our journey toward attachment.

*He was carried constantly from day one (due to advice from the NICU nurses and due to attachment). I rarely put him down and affectionately called him my kangaroo baby. I was judged…I was found spoiling my child.

*We have co-slept in various forms from the beginning and still do today. I have been judged…I have been found ignorant by many.

*We spent A LOT of time in doctor’s offices. I filled out the paperwork. I placed my name in the mother’s information section and I wrote in his medical history in the notes section. I was softly asked by multiple nurses what drugs he was exposed to in utero.  I answered the whispered questions and watched them avoid eye contact. I was judged…I was found a drug addict, an unfit mother, and I harmed my baby.

The list goes on and on.

I have learned that parents are quickly judged in this world. Parenthood is hard. The learning curve is steep and swift and by the time we get the hang of it, the short people change the game. We have our own insecurities. Our kids have unique personalities. And standing up under the weight of the added judgments can be so H.A.R.D. 

I know that this journey has changed me. I am quicker to smile at the mom with the screaming toddler in the grocery store. I am slower to knock someone else’s ideas and strategies that work in their families. I am learning to breathe and relax and remember that this is not a race or a competition. I am learning it is easier to navigate this journey when we reach out and take each other’s hand and let the judgments fall by the side.

Jennifer

(Jennifer and her partner, Jamie, have one son.)

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 entrée 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.