Category — Toddler-hood

Scrolling through the latest posts, you’d think I misplaced my children. I haven’t been posting pictures lately. So here you go.

Okay, I’ll bite.

Ms. Perpetua has been doing this for the past few weeks and I’m ready to jump in. It’s called ControverSunday, where we write about stuff that polarizes the best of friends and angers the most loyal of readers. I love it.

This week’s topic is extended breastfeeding, a subject near to my heart. (Literally, because I’ll be talking about my boobs, and they are located near my heart.)

I’d never heard of “extended” breastfeeding until a few months into my own breastfeeding experience. Back then, as now, I didn’t really think about how long I would breastfeed my twins. I breastfeed today, and probably will tomorrow, and likely the day after that.

Or maybe not. I’m not sure anymore.

In any case, here we are, 16+ months in, and I’m still nursing my babies. Er, kids, I guess. Because Elise and Althea aren’t babies anymore. I snuggle them close to my sides when they’re nursing and, in my mind, they are still tiny, needy little newborns. But then I glance over my shoulder and see round toddler bellies and long toddler legs and I realize that I have two thinking, learning humans drinking milk from my breasts.

It rattles me for a fleeting second because I know there are people who think it’s strange that I’m still breastfeeding my 16 month olds. Thing is, I don’t think it’s strange. Most of the mom friends I hang out with don’t think it’s strange, either. Many of them are still nursing their kids — toddlers who are the same age as Elise and Althea.

Perpetua elucidates an underlying but major aspect surrounding the controversy with extended breastfeeding:

This discussion seems to have less to do with nutrition than it does with how we feel about breasts in public, and how we feel about the way a two-year-old relates to those breasts. Regarding the first issue, there’s nothing inherently wrong with breastfeeding in public.  Kids exist, kids have to eat, some kids eat breastmilk, la dee da. Adults relate to the public display of breasts differently. . . .

This leaves us with how toddlers (as opposed to “un-thinking” infants) relate to breasts. I’ve heard the “If he’s old enough to ask for it, he’s old enough to stop!” rule before, which also seems rather a bit too arbitrary. . . . More to the point, though, is that toddlers most likely don’t relate to breasts as sexual objects.  WE relate to toddlers relating to breasts with sexuality in mind.

And that’s where I think some folks have a problem. I understand that people get uncomfortable with the idea and/or act of breastfeeding an older infant or toddler, particularly in public and especially in the U.S. The sexualization of the lactating mother and her nursling is indicative of the larger social perceptions and fears of sexuality in general. And that’s stating it mildly. As they say, we’re more comfortable with the sight of people being blown up on film than we are with the flash of a nipple during the Super Bowl halftime show.

But every day, there are small revolutions that challenge this attitude — from the public protests against breastfeeding discrimination to a Facebook fan page on the historical images of women breastfeeding.

So where was I going with this . . . Oh yeah, boobs. The bottom line:

• Breastfeeding is great and I’m a very strong advocate for breastfeeding your child(ren) as long as possible and is comfortable for mother and baby.
• Extended breastfeeding is great too.
• Except, in my opinion, when the nursing child is old enough to warrant a film crew coming out to document it. I saw that lady on that BBC documentary and yeah, that was extreme.

(Awful post title, I know. It was either that or “To Wean or not to Wean,” and that would’ve just been lazy.)

Today I had a doctor’s appointment. Doctor D happens to be the girls’ pediatrician, so he was familiar with our situation.

He saw that I was on Zoloft for depression and asked how it was working.

The truth is, it isn’t. It’s definitely taken the edge off. I don’t feel like driving myself into the Grand Canyon. Usually. But I don’t feel good. Hell, I don’t even necessarily feel stable. I still have many of my previous symptoms: self-loathing, depression, despair, guilt, difficulty sleeping, anxiety, rage.

Before getting pregnant, I was taking Lamictal, a drug used for bipolar disorders, which is what my psychiatrist had diagnosed. Lamictal worked wonders for me, much more than any antidepressant ever did.

Unfortunately, Lamictal is a no-no for pregnant and nursing moms (depending on what you read). Doctor D’s literature said it’s straight-up unsafe for nursing mothers.

To get to the point, Doctor D recommended weaning so that I could get on a drug that actually works for me.

And that’s my dilemma.

I’m not eager to wean. I’m not looking to nurse until the girls are four, but I’m in no rush to wean either. I feel like….well shit, I’ve made it 16 months. What’s another eight? Make it an even two years. Their immune system still benefits, right?

On the other hand, Doctor D has a point. I’ve given my kids nutritional and immunological benefits that the vast majority of kids don’t get. It’s time to take care of myself, because the disorder I’m dealing with is not something to mess with.

When it comes down to it, if mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy. And the fact is that I’m not whole. I’m not who I could be.

It’s not about a mother’s little helper. It’s not about chasing an image of the ideal. As I’ve chronicled previously, I just have something ‘broken’ in my brain and, like anyone else with a medical issue who benefits from medication, I am a much more functional human when I’m being treated with therapeutic drugs.

I just can’t seem to embrace the idea of purposely or forcefully weaning my children so that I can pop a couple of pills to feel happy. It’s just not an even trade-off in my mind.

But I don’t know if feeling that way is a legitimate concern, or martyrdom and self-castigation.

The other voice in my head says “Yo. Forget anything you’ve heard or read. You aren’t doing well. Your girls and husband need you. You’re not a failure if you don’t nurse for two years. Wait….. two years!?? Are we seriously having this conversation? Because if we are, then you really do need to go back on the meds.”

I don’t know if I’m venting or looking for advice or what. But if you have any insight, I’d love to hear it, even if it’s just an “Aw man, that sucks.”

Because aw man, this sucks.

I don’t feel like being witty, coherent or organized, but I have a bunch of would-be posts accumulating in my head so I just need to get something written.

Feel free to comment on any, all or none of the following topics:

Why won’t my children sleep?

The girls are just about 16 months old. For the past week, they have been waking up crying — no, wailing – several times during the night. The cries are so intense that we don’t wait more than 10 minutes to see if they’re going to settle down on their own. We rock, we sing, we check and change diapers, but still the waking continues.

At this point, I’ve given up on explanations. Teething apparently lasts for a decade or more. They are obviously going through tremendous developmental stages. I’m pretty sure that the growth spurt explanation is BS, because from birth to 16 years seems to be one giant growth spurt.

All I know is that I really, really enjoy kids who sleep through the night. I would like to have those children back.

OMG-GYM

I joined a gym to get away from the kids.

Okay, that’s a bit dramatic. But seriously, the crying/whining thing, and the fact that my body still resembles a mountain of melting Play-Doh even 16 months after giving birth, made me think:

• Many gyms have childcare centers.
• All gyms have exercise equipment.
• Therefore, most gyms will solve many of my problems.

This was an equation I could solve.

So far, so-so. Althea tends to start panicking after about 30 minutes, but, much to my surprise, Elise walks around like she owns the damned place.

I totally have baby fever, but I really don’t think we’re ready for another child

That’s pretty much it. We want another child, and now’s the time to take advantage of my ever-dwindling youth (and egg count). Chris isn’t getting any younger. There will never be a “right time.” There will never be enough money. So all the logical “we shouldn’t have another kid yet” excuses are semi-bunk.

But ugh. I loved being pregnant, but now that I haven’t been pregnant for a while, I really don’t want anything to do with it. The nausea, the worry, the cravings, the weight gain, the deprivation, the heartburn, the 40 fucking weeks….

Then the newborn stage. My GOD, the newborn stage.

Can’t I just give birth to a six month old who sleeps through the night?

Also, how the hell does one ever leave the house with three children and no help?

We went to Disney World — not entirely against my will

I grew up just a short distance from Disneyland in California. I know Disney. I marveled at “it’s a small world.” I grew a little and split from my chaperons to smoke behind Space Mountain. I went without chaperons and smoked wherever I wanted. I got kicked out for smoking. I got high and rode “Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride.” I shoplifted near the old “Jurassic Park” ride and got caught. (That one sucked.)

Then I went to college and realized what an evil machine of manufactured imagination, monetized innocence and capitalist cultivation the Disney Empire is.

But then I became a Florida resident, had kids and decided that $99 for four Disney parks was a really good deal.

So, before I knew it, this happened:

In case you’re wondering, the girls are pointing at birds. Yes, $99 and the kids like the birds. Chris is just looking hot and perfect. I, on the other hand, am just trying to suck in it, tuck my chin and hope that my newly developed brow wrinkles don’t show up in the photo too much.

(I haven’t done a general health/habits post in ages, so bear with me if you’re not into this sort of thing.)

The girls turned 15 months old last week. I’m starting to feel like a legitimate parent with actual, like….kids. While sharing a park with some morose-looking teenagers a few weeks ago, I had one of those out-of-body experiences where it hit me: I was no longer that rebellious, chain-smoking, misunderstood teen; I was now “that lady with kids,” a total buzz kill, a bust.

Or whatever kids are saying these days.

Anyhow, moving along….

General stats

As of this morning’s well-check, the girls have finally broken the 20-pound mark.  Both are at about 20lbs 5oz, which puts them, as usual, in the 10th percentile (20th if you go by the WHO breastfed baby charts). Both are measuring almost 30.5 inches (50th percentile).

They’re fitting comfortably in 12-18 months clothes and are now in size 4 diapers.

Sleeping

The days of two, two-hour naps every day are behind us, sadly. During the past six weeks or so, their morning nap got later and the afternoon nap phased out. Problem is, now they get super cranky and tired in the early evenings. It’s a bit of a rough transition. Their general routine is:

7:30 a.m. – Wake, nurse
8:30 a.m. – Breakfast
10:30 a.m. – Nap
12:00 p.m. – Wake, sometimes nurse
12:30 p.m. – Lunch
1:00 – 4:00 p.m. – Out and about
4:30/5:00 p.m. – Evening meltdowns begin
6:30 p.m. – Bath, nurse, read books
7:00 p.m. – Bed

I’m thinking it’s time to move up bedtime. I just keep forgetting. Aside from the occasional bad dream or teething, they still sleep solidly through the night.

Eating

We’re down to nursing two or three times a day. They don’t drink much whole milk, though — maybe three or four ounces a day. They just don’t seem to like it much, which is fine with me because the organic stuff is expensive.

They eat pretty much anything in the way of solids — that is, when they’re not scooping up food and dropping it over the side of the high chair. I still haven’t given them any nuts, honey or soy. They’re pretty good at using a fork and spoon, though I don’t offer utensils all the time.

Personalities and behavior

I hate to continue to peg one twin as “the happy twin” or “the serious twin.” They both have their own sense of humor, likes and dislikes, funky moods.

Elise loves: sleeping, birds, swings, avocados, squash, sucking her left thumb (so much that it has a callous), bananas, being held, dance and music, Yo Gabba Gabba, reading

Althea loves: avocados, Yo Gabba Gabba, reading, sucking on her sleep sack (which both girls now use as blankies), bananas, swings, kitties, making people laugh, playing in the sand, pointing at different body parts

As I posted earlier, we’re going through a pretty exhausting clingy phase. And tantrums are becoming pretty commonplace, though they’re thankfully short and not terribly loud. Althea’s tantrums remind me of those weird fainting goats — she arches her body backward, then slowly and dramatically lays on the ground, carefully placing her head down so as not to hurt herself. Meanwhile, Elise opens her mouth into a perfect “O,” turns bright red and cries.

Milestones

The girls are excellent walkers; people actually comment on how mature their walking skills are. There’s none of the tip-toeing or awkward knee-bending of a toddler. They can go up and down stairs (well, when they notice the stairs), get off beds and couches by themselves and sit on rocking horses the right way (which was apparently a difficult concept to grasp).

They don’t have many words yet. Both girls say Daddy, but only Althea says Ama. They both say bebe (baby),  “bah” for ball and “peh” for pelo (hair). But they understand a lot. They can point to their hair, ears, eyes, nose, mouth, tongue, feet, hands, stomach and bellybuttons (all in Spanish, I might add!). They recognize that a baby can exist in various places and in various forms — as a picture on the yogurt container, or a cartoon on TV, or a real baby in person. They know when it’s mealtime and bathtime. They understand sientate (sit down), and they raise their feet to put on socks and shoes.

I know that they understand “no,” mainly because it’s their favorite word to use and their favorite command to defy.

I’ve hesitated to post about this because I thought it was just some random thing. But it’s lingering — no, festering– so I need to share so that I might help other clueless, first-time parents.

The girls’ first year was full of plenty of tribulation, but overall, it was relatively easy as far I imagined raising twins would be.

Now? Ummm, not so much. For the past month or so, the girls have shown that they are regular kids.

It started with some extra-needy days. Elise would whimper for attention. Althea would need to be held. Teething, I figured, or just a random needy day. Hell, I’m 32 and I still have those days.

But weeks later, I’m pretty sure this isn’t random.

Some days aren’t too bad. I have to pay more attention to one daughter over the other, or we need to get out for extra playtime to distract. My patience is tried, but not broken.

Other days, though, are exhausting. Ex. Haus. Ting.

From the moment the girls wake up until bedtime some 12+ hours later, it seems like someone is constantly crying, whining, begging and clinging. Demanding to be constantly entertained. Rejecting food and drinks. Pushing the other sister, fighting for my attention, whining for no apparent reason. They’re really starting to understand requests and directives, and they’re blatantly defying them.

It’s maddening. Yet the defiance is somehow more manageable to me than the inexplicable crying.

The inexplicable crying ALL. DAY. LONG.

When Chris checks in with me during the week and asks how the girls are doing, I try to explain to him how tenuous my nerves are:

“I’m about to lose it.”

“Incessant crying since 9 a.m. Where are you?”

“Contemplating taking a leisurely walk on I-75 during rush hour. Leaving the girls at Toys R Us.”

From my conversations with other moms, this clingy-crying stage is painfully common at this 1+- year-old mark.  Thing is, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t end.

Ever.

When your entire family, including twin 15 month olds who have never thrown up in their lives, spends a few days ejecting every last droplet of food, moisture and intestinal lining out of both ends of their bodies, you have to find some humor in that. There’s always a silver lining, that’s what I say.

Such as:

• I saw a number on the scale that I haven’t seen since I first got pregnant.
• I didn’t have to cook dinner for three whole days.
• My legs are hairy and no one has noticed.
• Puking one’s guts out gives one every excuse in the world to not bathe, thereby saving water and electricity. I’m out to save the planet one intestinal catastrophe at a time.
• The toilets have been scrubbed. Twice. Okay, once.
• We now have a decent backstock of Pedialyte.
• In the past three days, I have washed every towel, sheet and article of clothing we own. Nothing like a good bout of dysentery to get the spring cleaning going.

Sure, there were some down sides:

• Losing seven pounds in two days has given me a decent idea of what my boobs will look like when I stop nursing — and it ain’t pretty.
• It’s going to take days to clear out the DVR.
• Unless you enjoy the hauntingly pungent odor of a morgue, do not use lavender and chamomile air freshener to mask the smell of vomit and diarrhea.

We made it, though. We made it without the expense of emergency room trips or doctor visits or prescription drugs.

In fact, the only thing we owe is our undying gratitude — to my in-laws, who endured being puked and shit on by the girls repeatedly and into the wee hours of the night so that Chris and I could repeatedly puke and shit all over ourselves; who brought us Gatorade (which we promptly puked up); who did laundry (which we promptly puked on); and who are now paying the price for all that unconditional love with their very own digestive battle.

Thanks, guys.

Today is my birthday. I am 32 years old. My 30′s suddenly seem so . . . inevitable.

Normally, I’m the one to celebrate my birthday the loudest. A birthday is your own special holiday, a day the world became a little bit different because of your existence. Every birth has a story, a history, the artifacts of which you carry with you every day of your life.

***

It’s been an unseasonably wet and cold winter in Florida. Where we normally take sunny days for granted, we now remark on the days when the gray skies part to give us a glimpse of what is being obscured.

A cold front, and the rain it bears, kept us stuck in the house again today. The girls were losing it. I was losing it. Not bothering to change the girls out of their pajamas, I took them out to the front yard.

We sat, the three of us, on an old porch swing by the front door, a swing I’ve used maybe three times in the past five years. The simple motion — back, forth, back, forth — invoked instant calm, the memory of rocking in the womb.

The wind picked up. The girls got down. Without hesitation, Althea buried her feet into a pile of wet leaves, sitting down to squish the earth and twigs between her fingers.

Elise picked up handfuls of leaves and trotted around the front yard, shrieking with delight.

Both girls stuffed piles of dirt into their mouths, an unapologetic exploration of their ever-expanding world.

Builds immunity, as our 93-year-old, World War II-vet neighbor would say.

***

In some tiny corner of my mind, I mourn. I long. My daughters’ lives evoke these feelings. I don’t embrace these feelings. I don’t hide them either. It’s just a dormant seed that I do not plant. But in fleeting, gray moments, I mourn. I long.

I mourn because my daughters will know so much about their lives — of their father, their future siblings, of each other, of the day they were born.

Things I don’t know about myself.

Much about my birth day is a mystery to me. I know that I was born in a small town nestled in a valley in the Pyrenees mountains of northern Spain. I know that my mother did a natural child birth. According to my Spanish birth certificate, I was born at the vague hour of “noon.” I don’t know how much I weighed, how long I was, how active and alert I was.

I don’t know what I looked like. I will never know what I looked like.

And so (teensy tiny nebulous little thought that I do not nurture) I mourn the irrevocable loss of my infancy. I long for knowing.

***

This year, my parties and presents and over-indulgences are overshadowed. My desire to celebrate my day has dissipated. Today is now something more. I share the day of my birth with my my children, my whole family.

These are my gifts this year: my daughters, my husband, our family. Love. Cloudy days. Playing in the dirt.

As it should be.

I did something tonight that I haven’t done since the girls were practically newborns: I rocked Althea to sleep.

She startled out of a dream, wailing mournfully. Nightmare or what, I don’t know. I gave it a minute and a half before recognizing that she wasn’t going to settle on her own.

Cracked the door open. Tiptoed to her crib. Picked up her fuzzy, footed-jammies body. Her tears flowed. I swayed my body back and forth, rubbing her back and breathing my mama comfort into her chest.

The wails stopped. She heaved a sigh and rested her head on my left shoulder. I continued rocking until I felt her body once again go limp with sleep.

***

I don’t get to spend much time with the girls one-on-one. If I’m honest, I’ve felt that Althea has an independence about her that makes me sort of incidental at times. Silly, I know. She’s only 14 months old. But tonight reminded me that she’s still a needy infant. The push and pull of a child’s expanding self.

It’s 10:45 on a Saturday night and I’m at the pump. No, not the gas pump — the breast pump.

I’m still nursing my 14-month-old twins. I can’t say what I thought it’d be like to breastfeed this long because I really had no idea what I was in for when we started. My mom always told me that it was normal and beautiful to breastfeed, so I just figured I’d put a couple of babies on my boobs and it would be all natural and easy and organic and happy.

Ha. Ha.

I am a breastfeeding advocate and believe that every mother should at least give it her best effort to nurse her child/ren (barring emotional/physical trauma that makes breastfeeding exceedingly awful). (And I’m not anti-formula-feeding. I understand every situation is different and I don’t judge any mother . . . oh for fuck’s sake, you know what I mean.)

Anyhow. I’m trying to say that breastfeeding has been full of issues. Oh sure, plenty of joy, beauty, happiness, etc.

But man.

When you read breastfeeding books, go to support groups or La Leche League meetings, you develop this image in your head of a blissful infant at the breast, the mother smiling contentedly while cuddling her suckling child . . .

No mention of how long or when or how often. No mention of the physical/mental toll, breast infections, clogged ducts, gigantic nipples, stretch marks, lactating during sex (yep, happens). The social awkwardness, emotional drain, self-deprivation and self-castigation. The feeding rejections, nursing strikes, teething, illnesses. The fact that full-time working mothers have a damned-near impossible feat trying to breastfeed full time while working 10-hour days  . . .

Don’t get me wrong. Breastfeeding is and has been absolutely the most awesome thing for my girls and for me ever ever ever. It’s wonderful and completely possible, even with twins.

But damn. Basically everything you need to know about breastfeeding in modern society? Kinda sorta majorly overlooked.

Leave your $.02 in the comments. I’d love to hear what you all think.