life with a new baby
Posts tagged Breastfeeding
Mind Readers and Tinfoil Hats
Dec 3rd
I’m going to have to make a hat out of tinfoil and start wearing it every day. Tinfoil is supposed to block others from reading your mind, right? Because if that’s the case, I think I’ll have to make more than one.
I bet right now, you are wondering if I’ve lost touch with reality, aren’t you?
Well, I haven’t. But I’m pretty sure Nathan is so in-tune with me that he is starting to read my thoughts. Not in a coherent way… not like I’m thinking about the color red and so he will, too. More like, if he’s sound asleep and I start thinking about him, he wakes up. Or if we’re all asleep and I have a dream about him, he wakes up. Or sometimes if I just think about his name in my head, HE WAKES UP.
WITHOUT FAIL.
In order to keep him asleep, I have to try to refrain from thinking too deeply about him.
I’ve also noticed that we both get fussy simultaneously. When I am in a bad mood, so is he. When he is in a bad mood, so am I. When one of us is happy, so is the other. It’s like our emotions and feelings are feeding off of each other, constantly linked. His emotions seem to be like a mirror-image of my own.
Other moms have always told me that children are linked to their parents like that. But I never knew it was so strong. It’s like a little piece of my soul has detached itself from me and has formed its own body.
I can’t let Nathan see me become frustrated. If I do, the poor little guy loses his cool. And trust me, it’s not fun when Nathan loses his cool. You’d think the end of the world is rapidly approaching. But even when I strain to hide any negative emotions, SOMEHOW HE STILL KNOWS.
It makes things difficult.
Especially breastfeeding. He’s going through his difficult breastfeeding phase again. He only likes to nurse laying down in bed. If I try to sit anywhere, he acts like I’m torturing him. But then while we’re laying in bed, he’ll stop feeding and fling himself away, flailing his little arms and legs around in a fit of protest against, well, that’s the problem.
I DON’T KNOW.
It’s so stressful when your child doesn’t want to eat. I try to sing to him, rub his little head, give him gentle kisses… but so far, it doesn’t phase him. I try not to let him see how anxious it makes me when he flails around instead of eating, but my little mind reader picks up on it anyways, upsetting himself even more.
I’m trying to make it to a year. That’s three more months. I will consider myself very fortunate if Nathan continues to breastfeed much longer than twelve months. Until then, I’m thinking about making that tinfoil hat.
Mr. Monkey Feet
Nov 14th
Nathan has been endearingly nicknamed Mr. Monkey Feet. I’ve talked about it here, where I described his discovery of his legs and feet and how he loves to attempt to eat himself. I love watching him play… he kicks his little legs and feet all over the place. He must love the sensitivity his feet have because he just HAS to touch everything with them… his toys, his face, the speckles of dust in the air… he even attempts to pick things up with his toes.
Once he intertwined his toes in such a way that they got stuck.
He strained to pull them apart.
They finally came apart with such force that it scared him.
He drew his feet up to his face, suspiciously eying them like he was wondering how his own feet could dare to betray him like that.
He even strains to touch my face with his inquisitive little toes when I’m breastfeeding him. Which, by the way, is getting harder and harder. His arms flap around in one direction and his feet are constantly seeking something to contact. It’s like he has four antennae constantly waving around, feeling his surroundings.
It can be quite annoying.
But breastfeeding dilemmas aside, it’s really amusing watching him play because he’ll lay on his back and will pass objects from hand to foot… and sometimes he’ll just rest his hands and let his feet do all the playing.
He’s my Mr. Monkey Feet.
An Arsenal of Boogers
Nov 3rd
Nathan has recently figured out how to wave.
Well, kind of.
He mostly just flaps his arm around, like a cat playing with a feathered toy. He doesn’t bend his wrist yet, but it still counts as a wave because he does it whenever I wave at him. He doesn’t wave all the time, but when the mood strikes, he’ll wave hello, good bye, and good night. As long as there is nothing else he can focus his attention on.
Like entangling his slobbery fingers in my hair.
Or trying to pick my nose for me. Thank you very much, son, but I assure you, I can pick my nose myself. He’s gotten really bad at this when I am trying to breastfeed him. Things will be going fine, and all of a sudden, his arm shoots out of nowhere and before I have time to yank my head away, he’s stuck his finger in my nose.
And he can’t just stick his finger in my nose and leave it at that.
He wiggles it.
It is quite disconcerting.
And it makes me sneeze.
But I don’t just sneeze once. I am one of the unlucky few who sneezes MULTIPLE TIMES IN A ROW. I am like the machine gun of sneezes. Rapid-fire sneezes. My sneezes could be used as a weapon. I could just use Nathan’s finger as the trigger, aim, and then sneeze someone to death.
Nathan thinks this is funny.
I don’t.
Well, at least he’s not picking his own nose yet. Once that happens, I can expect to find dried boogers wiped all over the place. He has an infinite supply of boogers. I’m constantly having to suck them out of his nose with the giant bulb syringe, which he LOVES. If my secret weapon is my rapid-fire sneezes, Nathan’s secret weapon is his arsenal of boogers. So yeah, I’m glad he hasn’t discovered his own nose just yet.
Be thankful for the little things, right?
Adventures of a Breastpump
Sep 28th
Ah, another Monday. In case you haven’t noticed by now, I’m not a big fan of Mondays. It is the first day of the work week, which means that my husband has to go to work for five days. Today signified the end of our wonderful weekend alone together… I had so much fun with Paul! The hotel was great, and of course, my husband brought in all our gear.
Including my breastpump.
My big, bulky, cumbersome, hospital-grade breastpump.
He walked through the lobby, arms laden with suitcases and bags, with this huge gray case that says “MEDELA” on one side and “LACTATION SERVICES” on the other. And it was rattling with every step he took. Loudly. I could see all the bystanders gazing curiously at this cumbersome container as he walked by. He might as well should have hung a flashing neon sign around his neck that said “BREASTPUMP COMING THROUGH” because I swear, it seemed a sea of people parted to make room for him and my breastpump. He stopped briefly to converse with a friend of ours who also attended the wedding.
“Yeah, this is a breastpump,” Paul said nonchalantly with a little smile as his friend looked curiously at the glaring words “LACTATION SERVICES.” I could feel everyone nearby who was staring at my breastpump look from the pump to my boobs.
Suddenly, I felt very self conscious.
Which reminded me of when I went to the hospital to rent my breastpump. Nathan had to stay home with Paul because I couldn’t take him to the hospital with me, so I was on a schedule and in a hurry. But I became lost in the maze of hospital corridors, and the doctors, nurses, and anyone who looked like they knew where they were going were all walking so briskly that I couldn’t stop them to ask for directions due to the fear of being trampled on like a mere mouse in a herd of elephants. Somehow, I meandered my way onto the maternity floor. When I exited the elevator, a group of guys were loitering near the door to the maternity wing, probably chatting about their newborn babies or whatever it is that loitering guys do outside a maternity ward. I looked to the left, then to the right, trying to get my bearings.
“Can I help you?” one of the gentlemen asked.
“Um, sure. I’m here to rent a pump,” I stated matter-of-factly, forcing myself to appear confident and cool. My forced boldness, however, was immediately shattered when looks of confusion clouded every single one of their faces.
“A pump?” he asked.
My heart sped up. Sweat dotted my brow. Did I ever mention I have anxiety issues sometimes?
“Yeah. A… breastpump,” I replied. Only, in my mind, it was all in slow motion. It didn’t seem like I said a breastpump the way a normal person does… it seemed to come out thickly, like someone had halfway pressed the pause button on my speech, making the world come out slowly: Brrrrrreeeeaaaaassstpuuuuuuuummmp.
They all looked from my face to my boobs.
“Oh, go through that door and go right,” the guy said, looking a little off guard. This is silly, I thought. Why am I so scared to say “breastpump?” Should I call it something else, like “boobpump?” Or what about “lactation device?” That was when I made up my mind that I would call my breastpump exactly what it was and I was going to force myself to get comfortable saying it.
After I picked up my big, bulky, cumbersome, hospital-grade breastpump, I hoisted it over my shoulder and began the trek back to my car through endless hospital mazes once again. Only this time, I stopped anyone who looked like they knew where they were going.
“Excuse me, I came here to rent this breastpump and I can’t find the parking garage,” I said to one marathon-walker. She looked at me rudely and pointed vaguely in the right direction, eyeying my giant breastpump.
When I came to a thick crowd of bystanders who wouldn’t let me through, I said, “Coming through with my breastpump, folks.” They immediately parted and made way for me and my breastpump. Almost everyone I passed looked at my big, bulky, cumbersome, hospital-grade breastpump case with the words “LACTATION SERVICES” printed glaringly on the outward side. I fought the urge to turn the case around and have the words “MEDELA” facing outward instead.
So my husband was less embarrassed than I was, but it was still funny watching him carry in my breastpump and all the strange looks he got for doing so. I love that man!
Recent Comments
I remember being a slave to separation anxiety! .-= Suzicate´s last blog ..Pinkies From Heaven =-.
There's nothing like turning something so gross and STINKY into something so unbelievably hilarious!!
Girl, you know I love the poop stories. I mean, I'm sorry they happen to you, but I do ...
Oh my gosh!! I think I would just DIE if someone did that to me lol!!