Editor for Hire

I'm looking for an editor for my blog. I can pay you in baby drool and dirty laundry, because that's what I've got an excess of... not so much money.

You must be willing to edit my posts at the drop of a hat so that I can post them on Facebook immediately in the hopes that people are actually tuning in.

Yes, I just ended that last sentence with a preposition. That's what you're for. Fix it.

I'm aware of the many typos, that my pre-pregnancy self would not have allowed past my own eyes. I am a grammar Nazi and love to use the correct spellings and endings of words. I seem to have let those rules lay by the roadside with this blog.

So sue me. I've got a wee little baby demanding much of my attention and I often pound out these posts as I think of them. There's no rough draft. What you read is the rough draft, work in progress and final draft. If Blogger crashed and lost all of this, it would be gone forever.

So, take it as it comes! Maybe, some day, my baby will be one of those babies content to sit on the floor while mommy punches out a few words on the dusty old computer. Oh yeah, I can throw some dust on your salary... got plenty of that laying around.

OH, and coming soon, I'll be editing my birth story because I've decided it's a total downer. This is motherhood with a sense of humor after all! Tune in for some of the zany antics and goings-on during my labor and delivery.

One Year Ago Today, Michael Jackson and Farah Fawcett Died

...And I took a pregnancy test.

I had been feeling sick for weeks. I could eat only Freezer Pops, sleep, get dizzy, eat some more Pops and sleep some more. I was fairly positive I had malaria, or cancer. Whatever it was, I was dying. I closed the blinds and kept to myself. My email account was filled with concerned messages, all unanswered, and my voice mail reached mass capacity and just started rejecting hopeful message leavers.

I didn't care. I also thought, maybe it was the early June heat wave with temperatures soaring in the 90s mixed with the recent loss of yet another temp job that put me in such a tizzy. Stress. It was just stress.

But I knew something was 'wrong'. I felt like I had the world's longest hangover. And as I lay on my couch, watching day time tv for yet another day, a thought began to creep into my mind. I ignored it, for a couple days. Then, that Thursday morning, my mind wandered to the pink box in the bathroom vanity cupboard. I had bought a toofer several months back before I officially stopped worrying. We had been loosely observing some natural family planning for quite some time until my doctor told me I had PCOS and probably would never conceive without medical intervention. I was depressed, but knew this wasn't the time anyway. Still, a couple months after that, I had an inkling... but it had been wrong. And now, the negative pregnancy test's mate laid waiting.

We were scheduled for a Brewer's bus trip that Sunday. A day of drinking sponsored by a bar owned by a good friend of our family. My ticket had been a birthday present from my uncle. Fourth of July was right around the corner. We were hosting a large party that day, even had friends coming from out of town... Maybe.. just maybe.. And why would I risk all that drinking if there were even a small chance...

For some reason, after putting off my incessant nagging thoughts on the subject, I flew up the stairs to the bathroom, tore open the foil package and sat down. I set the stick on the counter and bent to pull my pants up. I knew the drill. Three whole minutes to find out if my life was about to change forever. It didn't take three minutes. I caught the second pink line out of the corner of my eye as I buttoned my pants.

No, I thought.

The pink line was faint. Maybe it was negative? I've never had second pink line before.

I grabbed the box out of the trash can and ran to my bed, trying to locate the English directions on the accordion folded insert. There, in plain English (and plain Spanish on the reverse) was my answer. Even a faint second line is a positive result.

I ran down the stairs on auto-pilot, dialed my friend Libby. She was working, and answered to my surprise.

I said something like this, "OHMYGODIJUSTTOOKA ::heaving breath:: TESTAND ::heave:: OHMYGODOHMYGOD ::heave:: ITS POSITIVE..."

Libby later reported she only really heard 'test' and 'positive'. She told me to come out to the hospital to meet her for lunch, where she bought me a cowboy burger and some delish dessert thing that I only had one bite of and dropped in the lobby minutes later. (That would be my first indicators of Baby Brain). She spent some time reassuring me, especially when I realized I had been playing on a Slip and Slide days earlier. I believe she's the one that joked, "Yeah, I think Hitler's mom played on a Slip 'n Slide while she was pregnant with him."

I cycled through fits of crying and laughter throughout the day until Shane came home and opened the present I had wrapped for him.

He held the child-sized Spider Man fishing pole in both hands and tried to guess why I had bought it for him. He assumed it would be for one of our friends' kids to go fishing with him.

I'll never forget the look on his face when he realized who the fishing pole really was for. His jaw dropped.

"Yer pregnant?"

We laughed, we cried. Ok. I cried. Mostly he just sat there, shocked.

One year later, I'm holding my little surprise baby and now, I can't imagine life without him.

That's How I Roll

Yesterday was my first day in our new home. Ok. Technically, it was the third day, however, it was the first day there was bedding on the fully assembled family bed, enough dishes and pans to make a meal, and I seem to have located and learned the purpose of each light switch, except one in the living room which I'm sure is connected to an outlet and I'll find said outlet after hooking up my stereo and setting the clock.

Anyway, with a high needs baby (read: fussy and teething) and a high energy dog (read: ludicrous speed), I've decided to take it easy on myself and take my time unpacking and organizing. And, I so wish all my unfinished and unstarted crafts would stop calling to me from their various boxes, bags and baskets. I'm sure, by now, my embroidery floss is telling my knitting project (who gabbed to the appliques) that I have a history of putting down my old lady crafts for the summer. Of course, that was back before I had a baby and had better things to do (read: drinking).

Since this is a new neighborhood for me, I've taken to the idea of walking every day and checking out the area. My old middle school is 2 blocks up the road, and I heard tell they put in a new track last summer. So, I got up, fed the baby, ate some cereal and headed out the door. With the baby in the jogging stroller, I strapped on my quad skates to do a few laps. And few laps I did. Being a quarter mile track, I expected to zip around 'er a few times. I used to do several miles, last spring, before pregnancy (BP). To start, apparently I gained some weight in my thighs during pregnancy and my knee pads wouldn't fit. My hair is much longer and my helmet is now a glorified and fortified yamika. I looked so silly.

I did one lap. Stretched, then did three more laps. All the while pushing the stroller and huffing and puffing and saying "fatty" and "gettin' fit" over and over. Yes, that really was my motivation. 'Fatty'. Trust me ladies, if you don't actually know me, know this, I am definitely fluffy. I am not one of those skinny girls that thinks she's fat, in fact, I tend to have a mental image of myself as much skinnier until I try to buy pants. Don't worry, I don't hate myself. I just want to be fit and look halfway decent in a one piece bathing suit, with a cover up. I want to wear sweatpants and have people think 'oh, she looks comfy' not 'oh, regular pants must not fit her'. I want a moo-moo to be an ironic piece of clothing rather than a practical one.

So, after my four laps, I was sweaty profusely. I put my flip flops back on and continued looking ridiculous. Who pushes a jogging stroller in flip flops? And I was strolling... moseying at best. Who sweats that much from casually moving down the street? Oh man was I glad to get home.

Breastfeeding is So Natural

...Right??

Before I ever knew I wanted children, I knew I wanted to breastfeed. I felt compelled to do it. While pregnant, I literally fantasized about nursing my baby. I couldn't wait to hold him to my breast moments after his birth. If you've read my birth story, you know that didn't happen, and you know our breastfeeding experience got off to a really bad start.

I have struggled with supply since the get-go. I have done just about everything under the sun to increase my supply. I have spent hours of my young baby's life, crying along with him out of sheer frustration. I have questioned my value as a mother and a woman. I know there are other women out there like me, so I'm establishing another page to outline my experiences. I considered a chronological 'diary', but decided women are probably looking more for answers and suggestions, so, except for a story here and there, it will be informative (read: boring :). I will keep the page live while I work on it, so it will be available almost immediately and will be a work in progress until I get this issue nipped. (haha.. Nipped.. I'm so punny.)

Click here or at the top of the page on "Breastfeeding is So Natural"

Peaceful Parenting v The Pearls

I spent the weekend in Wisconsin's North Woods, camping at a group site with a number of folks, most of whom I didn't meet until arriving last Friday. Many were families, most of them were attachment families. I love camping. I love trading in the sound of cars driving down the street for wind rustling through the trees. I love hearing the loons call in the evening, the woodpecker pecking for grubs in the morning, and watching the 'chippies' run around looking for the smallest stray crumbs. I love watching the sun set on the clean lake and the vivid stars move across the sky. I love cooking my meals and dessert over a campfire, cracking a cheap beer in the afternoon and sharing stories bathed in the warmth and flickering light of the fire.

I DO NOT like sleeping on a hard surface in my jeans, wet from mid-calf down because it rained all day Saturday. I do not like freezing to death in the middle of the night only to wake up bathed in sweat the next morning. I hate pit toilets and the small compromise of peeing in a bucket in my SUV rather than make the trek to said pit toilets in the middle of the night. There are bears out there, you know, and timber wolves and coyotes. Not to mention, mosquitoes resembling small, bloodsucking buzzards, spiders you could throw a leash on and take for a walk and ticks... oh ::shudder:: the ticks. The ticks (and uncomfortable sleeping quarters) were ultimately why my near-four month old and I packed it up late Sunday night and made the 3 1/2 hour journey home. Two deer ticks spotted on my person within minutes of each other had me scrambling for civilization, despite the group camping trip scheduled to go through Thursday. Nope. I don't do ticks. I'm seeing them everywhere, out of the corner of my eye, they are crawling across the bed and down my arm. Of course, they're really not... But I am seriously dreading cleaning out my car.

Anyway. This post is not about ticks. It's about peaceful parenting. But seriously, those things are disgusting. And what, pray tell, ecologicial niche do those nasty little buggers fill? The 'creepy-blood-sucking-flat-sneaky-beasties' niche? Eck. Ish. Why does nature have to have so much... nature in it?

Okay, but seriously. At one point over the weekend, there were around 14 children running around the campsite. Not once did I hear a parent screeching or yelling at their kid. Not once did I see a kid getting punished physically. Not even a time out for that matter. Of course, this is a big campsite and I wasn't everywhere all the time, but for the most part, every child was very well behaved. Their parents were happy to spend time with them, following their lead. Toddlers toddled through the trees, smearing dirt on their faces and throwing leaves and pine needles into the air. Babies were worn or held, interacting with and nursed at will. Youngsters rode their bikes, explored the beach for rocks and the campgrounds for acorns and pine cones. At the few infractions, children were redirected, their 'crimes' explained to them in the simplest terms. No need for violence and humiliation, everyone's lives moved on in short order.

Every time we attend an event with these and like minded families, it's a testament to the wonderful parenting way that is peaceful parenting. Children are allowed to explore and grow within their environments, not forced to conform to a way of life far too mature for their developing minds. It's a joy to watch a toddler coo and make faces at an infant and to see a young boy see how many acorns with 'hats' he can collect. The parents aren't telling them 'no this' and 'no that' but rather allowing their children to explore their surroundings, learning and maturing as they go, the way children were meant to!

Then there are the Pearls. These horrible, awful people bent on beating children into submission, literally. These monsters actually promote beating and whipping children until they 'no longer have the breath to complain'. They don't start with children, but babies, even describing whipping their own four month old daughter as she attempted to crawl up the stairs. A four month old crawling is amazing! Let alone one crawling up the stairs! Crawling up is an essential exercise for growing and strengthening muscles and joints. Rather than use a gate and/or structured 'stair time' these people switched their daughter until she was too scared to go near the stairs. Their website and books are full of terrifying 'tips' and 'strategies' for keeping your children under control. And the entire time they do it, they hide behind the mask of Christianity, quoting the Bible as advocating their methods of child rearing. Children have died at the hands of their caretakers using these methods. Not to mention the emotional damage!

People are buying into this stuff and have been since the early nineties.
Awful Library Books has a well written article posted recently. You can also check out The Pearl's Website and read this heart-wrenching nonsense yourself.

What can we do? As peace loving people who believe in allowing a child their natural curiosity, how do we put a stop to people like this? A campaign must be waged against these people and the parents ascribing to their abusive methods of discipline, in the name of the children !

My heart breaks for these children and babies. Every time I read something about this travesty, I need to hold my baby, as a loving parent would do. I hate hearing my son cry. I can't imagine making him cry! I feel sick when I catch my nail on his skin, or bonk his head on ACCIDENT. How could anyone do it on purpose?

Sick. Just sick.

Finally! I am a Poster Child for Something!

So, I went down to the WIC office today to collect my checks. I walked up to the desk and proudly announced that I am exclusively breastfeeding. (This is a lie. I'll explain in a minute). The gal behind the counter met my comment with a 'YAY!'-Quite enthusiastic-Which elicited a 'HECK YEAH!' from me. I didn't mean to sound like a drunken frat boy, but I'm afraid I did.

Anyway, I am not, in fact, exclusively breastfeeding. I have been struggling since day one. Actually, day 2 1/2, since I didn't even get to nurse my baby until about then. Which, I believe, is precisely why my breastfeeding experience has thus far... well, sucked.

Flynn was born at 10:37 on a Tuesday night. After some recovery from my epidural, I was allowed to go down and see him. Just see. I couldn't hold him. My heart broke. His little head under that oxygen hood, an IV line coming out of his arm, and little monitors stuck to his small chest. He looked so frail.

Time out. I cannot wrap my brain around why they wouldn't let me hold him. Why they didn't, in fact, insist on skin to skin contact at that point. His problems were rapid breathing and dips in his heart rate and temperature. Isn't that exactly what I'm for at this point in his life? Not a heat lamp and ridiculous plastic hood? I'm sure those things have saved a baby or two, but... Oh, and did I mention no one, not one single NICU nurse or doctor mentioned skin to skin to me? I had no idea until afterward... Okay... I'll move on.

Anyway. The following night around 11 pm, I was allowed to attempt to nurse him. No one was around to help me with his latch or to even give me a pointer or two, so, I just winged it. The consequence was a painful, vertical purple blood blister on my left nipple. Ouch. I mean, seriously, OUCH, for at least two weeks.

The following morning, a lactation consultant showed up in my room and asked how pumping was going. I said I hadn't been pumping as I didn't have one. She looked panicked and ran out of my room, returning later with a pump.

Yep.. I'm sure you sense the continuing theme of complete silliness here. The following day, the neonatologist (oh boy, do I wish I knew then what I know now. I don't think this woman really knew much about child-rearing, and seemed completely ignorant of breastfeeding protocol). Anyway. She says to me that he has jaundice and will be staying another day, oh, and also, his output is too low and we either need to supplement with formula or face an extended stay. Ugh. Ok. Formula it is.

Even getting formula, they say he's not eating enough. Whatever. They send us home to work on it there.

I spent days, weeks, feeling like a failure as a woman and mother. I would cry while Flynn cried, both of us out of complete frustration. He wanted milk, I wanted to make milk.

Eventually, I found our local babywearing group, and through them, a number of wonderful people in my area. I got so much support and a lot of recommendations. Eventually, I decided that commercial formula is NO good and switched to Dr. Sears formula using goat milk as a base. Oh yes, it is so much better.

Anyway, we supplement very little at this point. And have no use for formula. So I told the WIC lady that we do occasionally supplement, but use a friend's breast milk. A friend has offered... Close enough. Besides, I am totally confident we will be at 100% within the next couple of weeks.

I told the WIC lady all that I had tried, all that I had been through (oh thrush...) and why I just didn't give up. She said I was the poster child for breastfeeding. She suggested I try to get a job with WIC as a peer counselor or something.

I've never been a poster child for anything before, except maybe the 'Smoke Pot and Watch Family Guy' movement. But, that didn't go anywhere, as you can imagine. (Don't judge me, I have no problem judging back. Besides, we're talking past tense here.)

I'll have to admit, I was so proud walking out of that office. My brand new checks in hand, now able to purchase cheese and canned tuna and more eggs. Woot. It wasn't the extra food, though. It was not having to buy formula, which I equated to the same feeling I had when buying tampons those first few years. I didn't want to admit to using formula. I am outspoken about lactivism, and here I am, buying formula? For shame!

So, in talking with this lady, I think, 'Maybe I should start a sort of diary to chronicle all the things I've done and tried.' Then I won't forget what worked and what didn't, for me, at least. Because, what works for one person might be nothing more than a hassle to the next person. So, I plan to begin a memoir of my breastfeeding experience and link it to my blog so anyone can read it. I will link it in as soon as I get started.

Okay, so today's post wasn't very exciting. I'm just so tired! I'm getting ready for baby's first camping trip. Should be a good time! But, it will be nothing but lame if I don't catch some sleep. (I really need to learn how to balance things a bit better... I'm running on three hours sleep from last night. Bleh.)

Goat Milk Formula