Feeding gymnastics

I have now officially become obsessed with feeding.  From the beginning, I've been determined to breast feed.  I lived through the first two weeks of severe nipple pain (why do none of the books talk about how common this is?), made it through a bout of mastitis, and have braved public scrutiny on several occasions. 

But now, as the boy's weight seems to continually drop in the charts and James has begun actively crying when I offer him my "bad" left breast (probably due to the hard lump of unmilked tissue that remains), I have begun to realise that motivation is not enough.  I have to do some serious creative maintenence work. 

Last night, my husband came upstairs to find me in an incredibly ridiculous position:  holding baby under one arm, with his legs out behind my back, in an effort to allow him to approach the breast from a different direction. (yes, it worked - he actually took it.)  If that stops working, I've read about even more ridiculous positions to try:  1)  Baby on bed, me on all fours with breast dangling into his mouth; 2) baby slung over shoulder, with head approaching breast upside down.

These positions are crazy.  Must babies be gymnasts in order to suckle contentedly?  It all looked so easy in the government informational materials...

The weight gain game

Six weeks in, I've discovered what seems to be the major mark of achievement for new mothers and associated health practitioners:  baby weight gain.  And somehow, I have fallen behind.

Upon birth, James' weight was firmly in the 50th percentile, meaning of course that his weight was "about average."  Sounded good to me - I had no hopes or fears around the figure.  Two weeks later, he remained in the 50th percentile.  But last week, the nurse looked alarmingly at me after weighing him:  apparently, even though he had continued to gain weight, James had fallen to the 25th percentile. Shock!  Until that point, I had breastfed exclusively, and once I got past the standard initial two weeks of pain, I felt I had found my rhythm.  James seemed happy, and his little cheeks were getting fat.  I felt the breast feeding to be a success. 

But, upon getting the news, my resolve begin to weaken.  I extrapolated, and imagined him dropping down to the 10th percentile, then the 5th.  Maybe he could be taken away from me?  Suddenly, I realized why it was that so many women give up breastfeeding - the fear of the percentages.  In the western world, we are almost cursed with too much knowledge.  Everything becomes a competition.  And no matter how confident I am that my baby looks healthy, I can't help but fearing accordingly. 

Since I've become aware of this information, I've been on a feeding frenzy, putting in the boob as soon as James utters a cry.  The nurse says that she'll weigh him again next week to see how he's doing.  I'm determined to fatten this little baby up accordingly.  And if I don't?  Time will tell. 

Baby's favorite color

Those without babies of your own, stop reading; this will address the most feared topic of non-baby owners: baby poo.  It seems to me quite ironic that while very young babies cannot easily discern different colors, their poo takes on a vast variety of hues, textures and characteristics.  I've seen it described as black, white, green, pale, frothy, seedy.  And these differences are not subtle - they are as obvious as big, flashing neon signs. 

But while these signs are obvious and easy to describe, they seem less easy to interpret.  Today I've been suffering from the main problem with researching baby issues on the internet:  TMISI, or Too Much Information Supplied by Imbiciles.  I was so concerned with the change of James' poo color from the "normal" mustard color to white and then green, however, that I spent an hour sifting through first-hand accounts of incidents involving various shades.  I ended my research period more confused than I started. 

I did learn, however, that the change of poo color to green is often a symptom of too much "foremilk" and not enough "hindmilk."  Women in Africa know of no such difference in milk - they simply latch the baby on and wait for it to feed - without this chiming group of anonymous internet voices following their moves. 

I now no longer care what this particular color of poo means.  I know that the baby seems happy and healthy, and any diagnosis would require more symptoms anyway.  What I'm more concerned about, honestly is this:  how did my brain get to such a state that baby poo is now interesting?  Bring me a copy of the Economist, please!

Spiritual Motivation

In preparation for James' baptism this Sunday, tonight my husband and I attended a "baptism preparation" class conducted by the church.   This session, which we attended along with four other couples, was mandatory for parents of children who will be baptised.

Our church makes a strong effort to avoid patronising or lecturing, which means that it is naturally difficult for them to hold classes of any sort.  It is difficult to talk about religion without resorting to sermon or lecture, and as a result, the main focus of the session was a women with long hair sitting on the floor, moving around replicas of Noah's Ark and the animals and reciting the fable that all of us already knew.  The room was silent aside from her narrative whispers punctuated by long pauses. During these vast periods of silence, I stared at the floor, hoping (or, should I say, "praying") that I wouldn't laugh. 

There was one relatively interesting element of the session.  We discussed the rationale for our decision to baptize our little one.  Why, indeed?  When I was a child, my parents allowed me to choose my own religion and my own church.  Aside from being given reference materials and various religious texts including an illustrated bible, I was never really pushed in one direction.  It occurred to me tonight that by baptizing our son, we may be pushing him in a particular direction - one that I am not even sure of. 

I ended the night realizing that there are other elements of the church that I am pursuing for James.  The local church community, the shared understanding with our family members, the traditions that have been passed on through my husband's family - all of these may be equally valid reasons for pursuing a particular religion for our children.  While people may not be quick to admit it, it is probably these tangential benefits, rather than the chance to worship, that encourage most parents to join a religion.  Now, we must wait and see how our children like our choice.

The family descends

Family have begun to arrive.  They are coming from all corners of the earth to stay with us.  They will bring offerings of clothes and toys, and will come with offers to help with laundry and cooking.  Next weekend is the crown jewel of the visits:  the christening of young James.  He will be only a month old, a bit young for a christening, but this is the day that was most convenient for everyone.  As a consequence, family and friends are able to come in vast quantities, and are making vast efforts to do so.

I am beginning to feel the pressure.  James cannot hold his head up yet, can hardly stay awake during the day, and barely  sleeps at night.  He has about 23.5 minutes per day of alert "play-time," during which he can either stare blankly into the eyes of the person holding him, or gaze blankly out of a window.  It is fascinating to me, because this boy is under my care, but I can hardly imagine that this will be entertaining stuff to the rest of the family.  I have begun to worry that they will think their travel efforts have been in vain, or scheduled too early. I predict that the grandparents will leave feeling that they are leaving at just the time they should have been arriving in order to see the most development. 

I loved the birth, and the two weeks that followed - time spent with just the three of us.  But now, I feel that I have to emerge into the world and its pressures.  This week of family events may be a severe trial by fire.  My parenting abilities will be on parade, I feel.  As I still have trouble keeping young James from spraying me as I change his diaper, I am concerned as to how I will perform.  And then I ask myself: does everything have to be a competition?  Can I just do my thing, let the family do theirs, and let judgements fall where they may?  Or does my newness as a parent mean I will fall victim to senseless criticism.  Time will tell.  Let's hope this week passes quickly.