Oh, the guilt

This has been a tough week.

I return to work on Monday, and we've been doing trial runs at our day care center all week. I love our day care center. I thought that dropping the Chicklette off there would be easy. It turns out that the way you feel about day care when you're 8 weeks away from going back to work is a little different than the way you feel when you're 7 days away from going back to work.

Here's how it went down:

Monday -- Bring the Chicklette to the center, and sit with her for an hour. Surreptitiously inspect the the other infants, and try to hold back tears the whole time. Finally break down on my way out. Call husband. Cry more. Call mom. Cry to mom. Mom says, "welcome to motherhood." Spend rest of day questioning my worthiness as a mother. What kind of mother leaves her kid with other people ALL DAY LONG?!?

Tuesday -- Bring Chicklette to center, stay 15 minutes. Leave her for 45 minutes. She is smiling when I leave. She is still smiling when I return. Hey, this isn't so bad!

Wednesday -- Husband brings Chicklette to center. Leaves her there for an hour. Sits in Safeway parking lot close to tears the whole time.

Today was better, and I'm guessing tomorrow will be fine as well. Monday? I'm sure I'll be a mess again.

I thought that the fact that my going back to work was not a decision for us -- financially, there's no other option right now -- would make things easier. I wouldn't have to agonize over the choice, right? I treated my maternity leave as a break in the normal routine.

Turns out that there are plenty of other things to agonize over. I'm starting to realize that I can now ALWAYS find something to worry about. I think that worry is the new normal.

As my mom would say, welcome to motherhood.

Lactation Frustration, Part 3: So Over It

I am so over it. The breastfeeding.

I am one week out from going back to work, and my supply has ALREADY tanked. I think it has something to do with the 12-week postpartum hormone realignment -- the same phenomenon that is causing my hair to fall out in clumps in the shower. That, and the fact that the Chicklette is sleeping through the night every night (I know, boo hoo) and I've decided that getting up once in the middle of the night to pump is enough, thankyouverymuch.

Every feeding involves an unhappy baby pulling painfully at my nipples. Every pumping is an exercise in frustration -- I'm lucky now if I get 2 ounces per pump, which means it takes me 3 pumpings to get one bottle feeding (she's now eating 5-6 ounces per feed -- probably because by the time she gets the bottle in the afternoon/evening she's hungry after a day on my loser boobs).

Nothing I've done has helped bump my supply. I've taken the herbs, eaten the oatmeal, and drank (drunken?) the gallons of water. I've increased the number of feedings/pumping sessions. And it's not working. I'm tired. And my boobs are hurting almost as much as they did in the beginning.

And I'm going back to work next week. Which everyone assures me will not help matters. I feel like my attempts to increase my supply are futile, since the work I'm doing will probably get undone once I return to my crazy job which will almost certainly involve me missing pumpings.

We've started giving the Chicklette a bottle of formula at night, just to get her used to it. She cried and fussed the first couple of times. It broke my heart. Now she's fine. But it feels like we're on a spiral towards the inevitable.

On the one hand, I feel great. I'm so looking forward to being done with breastfeeding.

On the other hand, I feel AWFUL. Guilty. If I were a good mother, I'd stick with it and do whatever it takes! (This coming from a formula-fed baby, married to another formula-fed baby, surrounded by friends who at least partly formula-fed their perfectly happy/healthy kids.)

And on the third hand (let's pretend I have one), I feel like a total asshat complaining about the feeding issues, since the Chicklette has been, as of late, the most low-key, agreeable, happy baby I can imagine. She sleeps through the night. She doesn't cry unless she's hungry or tired. She travels well. She smiles and laughs and is generally just fun to be around.

But I don't think I can feed her by myself anymore. Which is sad.

And happy.

Argh!

Adventures in the city

Yesterday, I made a trip into the big city (San Francisco) to show off the Chicklette at my office (and my husband's). All in all, it was pretty fun. The highlight was changing a poopy diaper in my office -- I can't imagine most law firm desks have seen the back of a baby's butt. And I got to check out the lactation room, which seemed nice but honestly I'm having a hard time seeing how this is all going to work out. I guess I'll find out in 2 weeks.

Anyhoo, we made it back home unscathed, and were enjoying an episode of the Gilmore Girls (which I have now watched in its entirety and am now reliving via repeats on ABC Family -- it's sickness, I know) when I got a call from my dentist's office. Apparently a "nice young man" (according to the 90-year-old woman who runs the front desk) had called their office, having found my wallet on the sidewalk in the city. He tracked me down via an appointment card stuck in some back corner of my wallet.

I called the nice young man, and my nice not-so-young husband is going to meet him today --thank you note and bottle of wine in hand -- to retrieve the lost wallet. Which apparently still has all of my credit cards and -- thank God -- my driver's license, because I think a trip to the DMV might put me over the edge.

I guess I'm a bit of a cynic, because I'm always surprised when someone does something nice like this. So, Mr. Nice Young Man, thank you for not taking your entire office out for drinks on my Amex.

Today, I'm going to try and not leave the baby on the sidewalk.

A night in the life

When the alarm went off this morning for my 1:00 pumping session, the Mr. was not in bed with me. I sighed, knowing that this meant he had fallen asleep on the couch with the Chicklette in her swing. And that I'd have to spend about 10 minutes waking him up, which would result in me becoming fully awake (if I'm lucky, I can get up and pump in a state of half-sleep and then be able to get back to sleep easily). I was pretty pissy. I tend to get that way in the middle of the night -- not my best quality.

Sure enough, I trudged out to the family room with my pump horns and there he was. I shook him and flicked him and said "hey, it's 1:00 -- put the baby to bed!" He eventually got up and took the baby. I leaned back, turned on the pump, and watched E! through half-open eyes for 15 minutes or so.

After I finished, I started to make my way back to the bedroom. I heard the sound of running water -- WTF? I walked into the bathroom, and the shower was running. "Hon? Are you in there?" No answer. I pulled the curtain aside and found him sitting on the floor of the tub, water running over him. "I'm just so TIRED. I don't know how I'm going to make it to work," he moaned.

"Um, it's only 1:15," I replied. Silence.

"Your husband is a f-ing IDIOT!"

And then we started laughing. And crawled into bed.

Apparently I'm not the only one having sleep deprivation issues.

Lactation Frustration, Part 2: Supply and Demand

The good news: the Barefoot house is still a breast milk-only zone. The not-so-good news: we've been fighting the battle of low supply.

Over the last couple of weeks, three things have happened.

1) I've been feeling under the weather, flirting with a cold.

2) I started Weight Watchers, and have lost somewhere between 5-10 pounds.

3) The Chicklette has been sleeping through the night with increasing regularity.

Some combination of these factors has been wreaking havoc with my supply. The Chicklette was fussy and unsatisfied at the boob, and my pumping output (which I know is not a totally reliable measure of overall supply, but still) went from 3.5-4 oz per session to 2-2.5.

When I first noticed it happening, I tried to make a few tweaks -- drink more water, try to eat more nutritiously (i.e., fruit and protein instead of 1-point Weight Watchers chocolate cake), and try to go to sleep a bit earlier. None of these really seemed to work (although I did feel better overall).

Next I tried Fenugreek. 3 capsules 3 times a day. My pee started to smell like maple syrup, but my supply, while slightly improved, was still less than it had been. We were starting to dip into the freezer stash, which was stressing me out.

Finally, on a recommendation from a lactation consultant and a couple of moms in my group, I tried More Milk Plus. This stuff tastes like the worst aspects of maple syrup and black licorice multiplied by 100 (you can get it in pill form, but it costs twice as much), but I'll be darned....it works! I've also started eating oatmeal in the morning, which is supposed to help as well. Between the two of these things, I'm back to pumping 3.5-4 oz a session, sometimes more depending on the time of day. And the Chicklette is back to looking drunk when she comes off the boob, which not only means she's getting enough milk, but also amuses me greatly.

So, we're chugging along. I can't believe how much time I spend thinking about milk and boobs (and how much money I'm spending on foul herbs), and dread whatever shake-up going back to work is going to bring to the whole supply issue. But for now, things are OK. A full baby is a happy baby. A happy baby is a happy mom. Etc. etc.

And speaking of happy, I need to figure out what I'm wearing on my DINNER DATE tonight because some other crazy friend of ours is so excited to spend time with the baby that they've offered to babysit. I don't know what's wrong with these people, but I'll take it.

Happy two month birthday, pork chop!

To my dearest Chicklette:

Happy two-month birthday! I'm a day late, but I'm betting you can't tell the difference.

I can't believe it's only been two months since I pushed you through a happy epidural haze into the world. You have done so much growing and changing since then, and I honestly can barely remember what my life was like before you were in it. Kind of like in Twilight, when Bella can only hazily remember her human life. (Is it too early for me to start reading you those books? Let's discuss later.)

I'm not going to lie -- your first few weeks were not so much fun for mama. But now, I get greeted in the morning with smiles and giggles. Your big blue eyes follow me around while I make coffee and putter around the house. You gurgle in agreement with me when I comment on the morning news. You giggle in delight at all the pretty colors when we go shopping. You are, at this moment, a super-fun companion.

I look at you, and even though for the life of me I can't see either daddy or me in your face, I'm in awe that we (with the help of a very nice reproductive endocrinologist) made something so perfect. I could just explode from the cute. And the love.

I'm looking forward to every minute (well, almost every minute) of the next month we get to spend together before I go back to work.

But now, it's back to the Price is Right.

It's very educational.

Shot through the heart

Yesterday, we made our way to the pediatrician's office for the appointment I'd been dreading since I scheduled it -- the Chicklette's 2-month vaccinations.

Now, after all of the blood draws and injections of IVF, it's not like I'm squeamish about shots. In fact, I almost enjoy them now because it makes me feel like a bad-ass that they don't bother me. (I take my bad-ass where I can get it these days.) But watching your child get poked is a whole other ball game. Heck, I don't even like watching the pediatrician put a cold stethoscope on her chest. Overprotective, anyone?

So, anyway, we got to the office and had our regular appointment -- height and weight measurements (she's 9 pounds, 8 ounces!), ear and eye check, etc. -- and then we started the Shot Talk. The ped gave us a sheet with all of the things that could go wrong that we should watch for (thereby guaranteeing that I would see EVERY ONE OF THOSE THINGS), and instructions for Baby Tylenol. Then he left for what seemed like an hour to get the fun stuff.

Do any of you have pets? Do you sometimes feel really bad when you know they're about to go to the groomer or the vet, or take a long car ride (if they hate long car rides like our cats do)? Because you know what's coming and they don't? Well, this was like 100 times worse than that.

The shots themselves went quickly, but not so quickly that the Chicklette didn't start shrieking immediately. Poor little pumpkin. We calmed her down (the Mr. took a day off yesterday to come with me to the doctor -- how awesome is he?), and she was asleep in her carseat by the time we left the parking lot. She slept for 4 hours (!), and then woke up and proceeded to howl for 90 minutes. Then she went back to sleep, and woke up and starting howling again. Then she went down for the night -- 12 hours with one short break for food at 4 a.m. -- and woke up my normal happy baby again.

(Oh, and how I know she's my kid and the clinic didn't grab the wrong petri dish? During her relatively brief but traumatic moments of alertness last night, she put down about 15 ounces of milk. Like her mother, only an act of God could kill that appetite.)

So, all's well that ends well, but I think I aged about 5 years last night. Such a wimp. How I'm going to survive the next 18 years is beyond me.