Ode to Sleep Deprived Parents

The Sydney Philharmonica Choir performs "Ode to Sleep Deprived Parents" set to Carmina Burana. Enjoy.

Felicity's First Boyfriend

Names have been changed for privacy.

"...And Felicity's boyfriend will be here tomorrow night for dinner," my mom said with a smile as she folded a towel. I paused what I was doing and looked at her.

I was visiting my family for two weeks over Christmas, and my mom had invited her close friend Georgia, along with her husband and one-year-old son, Julian, over for dinner on New Year's Eve.

I was really excited to see Georgia; she's been a sort of surrogate big-sister/mentor for me since my teen years. I cried when she miscarried her first pregnancy, and was thrilled to find out she was expecting again, a few days after I found out I was pregnant with Felicity. Julian is about three months older than my small offspring, and, apparently, is Felicity's intended.

"Mom," I said softly, "Julian isn't Felicity's boyfriend." I paused. "Felicity can only have a boyfriend if she can consent to have a boyfriend, and she hasn't yet, she's much too little to make a choice like that."

We turned back to the still-warm towels and continued folding, moving on to conversation about what we would serve for dinner, and my plans to bake that evening.

The next afternoon, while Felicity took her afternoon nap, my older sister and I sorted through a large tub of pink baby clothes passed down by one of my aunts. My mom was straightening the kitchen and living room, a seemingly endless task with two toddler grandchildren hell-bent on spreading duplos and board-back books to every possible corner. She stopped by the table to check our progress with the clothes.

"Felicity's boyfriend will be here in about an hour," she said, encouraging us to finish our project and clean up the aftermath as swiftly as possible before the company arrived.

"Mom!" I snapped, more harshly than I intended, "Julian is not Felicity's boyfriend!" I furiously picked up a pink sweater and folded it quickly, messily. "She isn't old enough to speak for herself. She isn't old enough to choose to date someone and to say if she'll even like boys. She may decide she wants to date girls!"

I couldn't look up to meet my mother's eyes. My sweet and loving Christian mother holds very different views on sexuality and morality and I'm sure I offended her on many levels. I felt bad that I reacted so hotly and that I had most likely caused pain, but I also didn't regret my words.

"But in as much as Julian is a boy, and in as much as he is her baby friend, then yes, he is Felicity's boy friend, a friend that is a boy," I conceded.

"Yes," she said quietly, "That's what I mean."

I know she meant well, but I also know it isn't what she meant. I know because it's what I grew up in, the endless matching of this person to that person, always female and male. It's odd that I basically wasn't allowed to date at all throughout high school (yet did, on the sly, once or twice), but I was often verbally paired with someone from church that met with my parents' approval.

This is part of the problem though, isn't it? It seems so innocent and sweet, to tease about babies dating, or even to tease your teenage daughter about which boy in her youth group is cute (although only boys who get good grades, are "serious about the Lord," and intend to go to very good Christian colleges are presented as options). And haven't I been tempted to do the same thing with some of the New York mamas with some seriously sweet and adorable baby boys?

But I abstain, because what I said to my mom is absolutely true: I don't know if Felicity will be interested in men or women when she grows up. I don't know if she'll decide she wants to identify as a female. For all I know, she may resent the fact that she has such a feminine name and go by Brian instead (her middle name, which I'm suddenly convinced we wrote out as 'Brain' on her birth certificate), and decide to have her breasts removed. I do know that whoever and whatever she chooses to identify as, I want to support her completely. I never want her to feel any shame about who she is, what she feels, or what she wants. I don't want to assume anything about her that will cause her harm, or the harm of others.

And that's really what this is about. Statistically, my daughter will choose to identify as a female and will be attracted to men. But by assuming that this is the case and joking about it, we reinforce that heterosexuality is expected, that it is what is normal and right. This belief is why homosexual and queer kids are bullied in school, why adults find it difficult to find work if they dress or act outside of the binary of male/masculine and female/feminine, why our country is having such a difficult time accepting the possibility of gay marriage.

For now my daughter's bangs are swept to the side with a little bow as they grow out, but she also listens to stories about how a baby bird has two mommy birds, or two daddy birds, and all of the dinosaurs in her books are strong, decisive lady dinosaurs.

I think I can safely call this ironic.

I fed Felicity spaghetti tonight. It was a simple but messy affair. In removing her from her chair, carrying her to the bathroom, stripping her down, and getting her into the tub, I found myself covered in little saucy hand prints, globs of tomatoes, and even a few noodles. I removed my dirty top and threw it in the laundry, and pulled a freshly laundered sweater out of my dresser drawer and over my head.

Four hours later, I looked down and found a dried noodle stuck on/in my sweater that had survived our washing machine from the last  time Felicity had spaghetti for dinner.

Parenting. New thrills every day.

[Please note that this picture was taken before she smeared spaghetti into her hair and over her eyebrows. Please also note the pasta delicately draped over her the arm of her chair. I'm raising an artist here.]

This is feminist parenting

I wrote the following in the middle of a three-hour flight from Washington D.C. to Minneapolis on Thursday, December 20th. I would like to report that Felicity was a complete angel for Ian their entire time together.

This morning, I stepped onto a plane, waving goodbye to my husband, who had our 12-month baby strapped to his chest. This was to be the longest separation yet between myself and the baby, a whole seven hours and a half hours. I felt guiltily liberated. 

Our small family is going to Minnesota for the holidays. My husband has a conference in Atlanta immediately after Christmas, and I’m staying a week longer with my family before joining him back in New York City. We scheduled our flights separately, finding that the best price for my round-trip was to fly an hour to Washington D.C., enjoy a two and a half hour layover, and then sit on a three hour flight to Minneapolis. I booked my ticket with a lap infant, planning to have Felicity fly with me.

Ian, on the other hand, was able to purchase all direct flights. So despite lifting off thirty minutes before he would, I would arrive three and half hours later.

Two mornings ago, talking about our trip and upcoming flights as we prepared for the day, we realized how crazy it was for me to have two flights with the baby and an overall longer time waiting in airports and in the air. Ian suggested taking her. I readily agreed, knowing that I would have her on my lonesome on the journey from Minneapolis to New York City after the New Year. I recalled flying alone with her when she was a sleepy three months old and how challenging that seemed at the time. I felt happy to share the burden of parenting with my spouse.

Last night, thinking about the logistics, I started to panic. The maximum Ian and the baby have spent alone (without me easily accessible) is about four and half hours. It isn’t that he is never home or isn’t a good caretaker; he does much of the parenting when he is home, sharing in the diaper changes, feedings, baths, is in charge of bedtime, and is a really excellent and involved father. It is more the case that I am still breastfeeding. So even if I have appointments, am working, or am ill, I pop in every two to three hours, check on everyone, see if the baby needs to nurse, and generally offer an over-abundance of unnecessary ‘advice’ to my husband about baby-related things he already accomplishes with finesse.

I am in the process of weaning the baby down to one or two nursing sessions a day, and so was not so worried about an extended amount of time without breastfeeding her. Instead, I had a serious case of the maternal “what ifs”: what if her ears bother her on the flight and she screams for hours, and I’m not there to comfort her? What if she desperately decides she must nurse, adamantly giving my husband her nursing sign, refusing the soy milk, peanut butter, and fruit packets we carefully tucked into her diaper bag, and then refuses to be comforted? (This is her latest – and quite effective – tactic to get middle of the night feedings). 

As I write this, I realize our division of labor is good. This is feminist parenting. To say, I desperately would love some time to myself and would like to enjoy (as much as one can enjoy) my day in airports and in the air in solitude, with my book and my writing and my research project. To say, it makes more logistical sense for the baby to be in airports and in planes for less time, and to only have one descent, which can be so painful for little ears. To you, now that we are down to fewer nursing sessions, there is no reason why my very capable and nurturing husband can’t be the sole caretaker for the great challenge of taking a very active, newly willful, almost-toddler across the country. To say that he can handle it, no matter what the day brings. To say that even if she does get upset and cries for their entire three hour flight, it will not permanently damage her and she will be fine, and he will be fine as well. 

They were supposed to be landing about the same time my last flight was taking off. I kept my phone on as long as possible, holding it nervously in my hand, desperately wanting to know how everything went. Alas, I had to turn it off before he texted to say that they’d landed. 

Although it has been nice to be able to think about other things besides the baby, to read and not be juggling a baby on my lap, and work on editing my current research project instead of singing endless renditions of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, the desire to know what is happening is overwhelming. I am accustomed to being in control (or at least feeling that I am in control). 

I find myself counting down the minutes until I see them: ninety minutes left in the air, another thirty or so until I can hug the baby, kiss my husband, and know that being a mother doesn’t always equate to sacrificing what I need and want.

How to have a (somewhat) lazy Saturday morning with a baby

1. Stage sleeping in:
•  Awaken before 6:00 am to strange noises/smells, and realize your baby is awake
• Argue about who spent more time up with the baby during the night.
• Realize the mom is almost always the "winner" here.
•  Kiss to show no serious hard feelings, and hand baby off to partner for one hour, more tired parent sleeps in.
• Swap places with baby and bed, second partner naps for an hour.
2. Baby naps:

•  Everyone snuggle in bed and get baby ready for nap.
•  Baby feels so loved and wonderful, baby inevitably goes down for long, wonderful nap.*
• Enjoy what you would've normally done on a Saturday morning before you had an infant that woke up at the crack of dawn, demanding your near-constant attention, but be aware that your napping child is really a ticking time bomb, so hustle through your relaxing activities. 
3. High-five each other - you are awesome. Pretend that having a child really hasn't completely wrecked every weekend.

*Note: This doesn't always work. Baby may be on to your plan...

Discussing Abortion

I read an article today about a woman's experience of getting pregnant unexpectedly (while using an IUD), and her decision to have an abortion to terminate her pregnancy.

Abortion is typically talked about in the terms 'pro-life' or 'pro-choice,' and we forget about the stories of women, those who decide to go through with the pregnancy, and those that don't. I've never personally heard anyone talk about an abortion that they, or even a friend, went through, and I appreciated this personal account.

Like many women, I'm pro-choice (and support Planned Parenthood), but I would have a difficult time going through with an abortion myself. At this point that's probably because I'm pretty okay with having another baby (though don't want one right now), and know that I would get a tubal immediately after the birth.

But there was a time, when I was pregnant with Felicity and was suffering from PUPPPs (pruritic urticarial papules and plaques of pregnancy, fun name, right?), that Ian and I talked about it. I'm not sure if I wrote much about this experience, so I'll do it now:

When I was three months pregnant, my body broke out in an unbelievably itchy, awful rash, that supposedly occurs in about about 0.05% of pregnancies (1 in 200). It's also supposed to only be bad for about a week (not true), occur in the last few weeks of pregnancy (SO NOT TRUE), and will persist until after the birth of your child (this is true).

The itching is akin to nothing I've ever experienced before, and I'm a Minnesota girl that has had her fair share of misquito bites and was susceptible to impetigo as child. The itching of PUPPPs drives you insane. You can't do anything - you can't concentrate, can't complete your sentences, and can't sleep. I went the emergency room at one point because the itching was so awful, we didn't know what else to do. I was put on oral steroids, a dermatology student with poor stitching skills gave me a skin biopsy in my hip, which will forever have a crazy scar, and then I was put on topical steroids. I had to take benedryl to try to sleep at all. When I was able to sleep, I'd wake up repeatedly in the night, having scratched myself to bleeding on my arms, legs, belly, and hips.

We tried all sorts of things. We heard that something called Grandpa's Pine Tar Soap helped, so I started using that (it smells like a wood fire with a hint of... tar). I was taking cool oatmeal baths several times a day, taking cold showers several times in the night when the itching got bad, slathering on pure aloe vera (which smells exactly like a hardware store), and doing a lot of crying.

So we talked about terminating, because both Ian and I felt that I would not physically be able to handle the insane itching for six months (or more, if it continued into nursing, as it does in rare cases). At this point, both Ian and I were barely sleeping, and I had to basically be drugged every night (it got much worse at night), and he would have to hold me, spooning me tightly, while watching the trashiest TV possible we could find online.

Then I found something online called nettle leaf tea, something pregnant women have been drinking for centuries to help with allergies and itching during pregnancy. I was strongly urged by the University of Michigan medical staff not to drink it (not tested by the FDA, anything could happen, they apparently would prefer it if I was taking category-C drugs instead during two-thirds of the pregnancy). I didn't listen. And I'm glad.

I started drinking this grassy-tasting tea 3+ times a day. Within several days the itching had improved, and within a week that actual rash itself was almost gone. I still had flare ups when the weather was hot and humid, and admittedly spent many nights in the sixth and seventh months of pregnancy splayed naked on my bed with a giant fan blowing cold air on my giant belly, slathered in cooling aloe vera, but this amazing tea eliminated about 95% of my symptoms and made pregnancy doable for me.

I'm glad that we didn't have to talk very long about whether or not to keep our baby - she was wanted, and now that we have her, we're so glad we do. But I also don't know if I could have possibly gone through an entire 6+ months of that insane, awful itching - a couple of weeks of it felt suffocating and infuriating, unbearable. I would not have been able to do my graduate work, excel at my job (earn money), interact with Ian in a loving manner, and focus on doing what I needed to do to grow a healthy baby.

The Baby is One

Two days ago, Felicity turned one. I loved it, I hated it.

I adore birthdays. I will even try to celebrate your half-birthday, if you let me (with a half of a cake, naturally!). I want Flick's birthdays to be special, full of tradition, and memorable, even if she isn't the one keeping the memories at first.

I made lots of trial cupcakes, and settled on two recipes for her party. I took time thoughtfully selecting gifts that her little baby self would love, bought a bouquet of flowers for her (mixed in variety and color, because I don't know her favorite flower or color(s) yet), and found a very sweet card for her. She even got a balloon, though she's not really into balloons yet, we found out. My mom and I made a birthday banner for her during Hurricane Sandy, which Ian and I hung with great care, using a ruler and everything.

We went out for breakfast on her birthday. I took a picture and avoided crying. Then Ian left for an all-day conference an hour and half out of the city, and Felicity's babysitter came and took her for five hours so I could clean the house for her party the next day.

I tried really hard not to feel guilty about this (like I try really hard not to feel guilty about so many things): Ian had had a crazy week at work and did not have time to contribute to the housework during that week, I have been prioritizing my own research and writing (yay), and the party was scheduled for the next day, and the apartment needed a little TLC. Plus I had to buy groceries and start cooking. Also, Felicity is too young to understand the concept of a birthday, and what the day is.

I was able to accomplish an amazing lot in the five hours, and Felicity loves E., her sitter. Afterwards, I took her on a long walk, and ate bits of dried fruit and animal crackers with her at the cafe in Whole Foods. She napped in her stroller, and we did an extra-long story time before bed, with lots of cuddles and kisses. She fell into a really good, deep sleep. The sleep of a baby that has been active, laughing, reading, and interacting with someone else almost the whole day, the restful sleep of a baby that has a relaxed mother, a happy mother.

I am increasingly aware of my need to be accepted and to live up to the expectations I perceive others have for me. This whole birthday experience further highlighted this. Maybe it's because birthdays were treated a certain way in our household, with a certain sort of reverence and tradition, and that is what I want to pass on. Maybe it is because I feel the "perfect mother" would have had the house clean in the first place and would be able to handle getting ready for a party while taking care of and pleasing a baby, and that this wouldn't upset her child and exhaust her beyond her limits. I'm not sure who this perfect mother is, but she sure isn't me.

So I didn't let myself feel guilty. At the end of the day, the baby was happy, and I was happy, and she had a really lovely party yesterday afternoon.

I do believe I achieved some sort of balance. A feat, ladies and gentlemen, a feat!

Now I just have to come to grips with my baby not really being a baby anymore. 

I've Been Doing Things

You've certainly noticed a lack of posts; I usually make an effort to post daily, yet there has been an almost two-week silence!

It's really all been quite a bit of readjusting and re-prioritizing. That and packing, and cleaning, then a three-day roadtrip, cleaning some more, and unpacking and organizing.

Ian and I decided we really weren't pleased with many of our choices and use of our time over the summer. Yes, I wrote a lot and started a few new projects, and we made steps in the right direction for revamping our budget to save more, and improve our eating habits, but the whole time in Ann Arbor felt very unfocused and confused. We spent several days talking and planning when we got back, and committed ourselves to a schedule that prioritizes my work as well as his. What this means, however, is that we're spending less time together in the evening, waking up earlier, and have less free time in general. We're getting serious, yo.

I love to blog, I love to write. I love working on my projects. But realistically, I need to focus on doing my part in keeping the family in order, then my research, then my physical goals, and then fun things like reading and blogging and watching videos of adorable kittens online (there is actually very little of this, but who am I to say that it doesn't occupy more time than it actually should?)/

We've also committed to not eating out at all, except for once a month on our lunaversary. This is actually pretty easy to do now; there are absolutely no restaurants within walking distance (or even a short train ride!) that are both affordable and cater to a vegan diet. Ditto with baked goods.

And so we are very intentional in planning out all of our meals, even our snacks. It means we are spending more on groceries (though about the same overall as when we were eating out 2-4 times a week and eating meat and dairy products), and that we are both spending more time in the kitchen. I'm the lucky one - I get to spend most of my kitchen time cooking! And then Ian cleans up my messes, which is a really big job. So when I say that a large chunk of time is going to "keeping my family in order," what I really mean is that I spend lots of time in the kitchen. Making delicious things. And lots of messes. But I'd like to focus on the delicious things.

I'm also taking my research much more seriously, prioritizing it above all else during my allotted 'Rachel' time. I haven't done this since the baby was born. Before, if Felicity was cranky, or I was tired, or the house was a mess (one of these three things was almost always the case!), I would choose to stay home. Now, save for a medical emergency and/or natural disaster (they often come hand in hand, no?), I'm out the door when I'm supposed to be. I'm started actually leaving my computer at home to avoid distractions when I'm out. And guess what? I'm working at about 3x the speed. I have to write out my notes by hand, but that's fine.

And exercising. I'm exercising now at night if I'm not working or cleaning. This instead of watching Gilmore Girls (maybe I can do both at once!?!). 

Add on to all of this a poor, sweet little thing about twenty-two pounds in weight that has her two front, top teeth coming in (ouch!), and has had a terrible case of the loose-poos for the past four days straight. As she has no other symptoms, we're pretty sure it's because of the teething and the pediatrician isn't worried... yet. But seriously, Felicity goes through about 15+ diapers a day now, and, despite our best efforts, has a diaper rash that only a forgetful and easily-distracted infant can endure. I'm pretty sure I would not be as patient with such a red, angry booty.

And her sleep schedule is all messed up due to the above. It's super not cool.

So yeah. I've been doing things.

I do plan on starting back with the Meditation Project very soon. We haven't done any sitting or walking meditation in the week we've been back, and I must admit that my daily mindfulness practice has also almost disappeared. Isn't it funny how a change in location can throw off your groove? I need to take some time to plan out how to be intentional with the project and work it into our grand schedule. Personally, I think this will involve leaving hand-written gathas around the house on note cards.

For example:

As I take off your steaming diaper,
I am reminded of the ebb and flow of life.
May your diaper rash heal,
As we heal ourselves and others.

I'm kidding. Sort of...

Baby "Nutrition"

Before I begin tonight's post I will admit that I gave Felicity a pea-sized crumb of a vegan carrot cupcake today (the cake part, certainly not the frosting). She's eight months old, and looked up at me pleadingly when I didn't share my food with her. I acquiesced, I'm nice like that. But I didn't give her the whole cupcake.

I'm a member of BabyCenter, something I have in common with the majority of new moms I meet. Not familiar? BabyCenter is an online community of parents, mostly mothers, who join specific groups with similar interests or demographics. For example, I'm part of the November 2011 Birth Club (Felicity was due in November), December 2011 Birth Club (Felicity arrived on December 1st), several NYC groups, a PUPPPs support group, and a breastfeeding support group.

I spent a lot of time on BabyCenter when I was pregnant. With over 12,000 members in my November group, there were all sorts of interesting questions and thoughts about pregnancy and our coming babies. After Felicity was born, and as she's grown, I've gradually spent less and less time on BabyCenter, to the point where I didn't even check any of the group forums for about two months.

I accidentally clicked on the link to my birth board on my bookmark bar last night, and was immediately sucked back in. And I cannot even begin to relay my horror.

Numerous posts in the November group centered around feeding babies. While it's nice to check in with other moms to see how their babies are doing, I simply cannot believe what some of these parents are feeding their children! Above and beyond the disgusting, jarred purees, parents are introducing (with pride!) ice cream, packaged deli cold cuts, chicken fingers, macaroni and cheese (and I'm guessing it's not the homemade kind), pizza, etc. What frightens me is that, with the exception of cold cuts, which many moms are avoiding, all of these seem to be very standard foods.

It's not just these online moms, either. I former coworker told me her 7-month old's favorite food was marshmallows. The next day, I saw a baby who could not have been older than 6 months sucking on a cheeto while strolling down State Street. And I cannot help but recollect seeing a father scold his young daughter for not finishing her french fries on the subway a few months back.

And we wonder why our kids become picky! Maybe because we first shove canned vegetable mush at them, and then we give them processed and/or unhealthy garbage to eat. Are children even allowed to develop a palate for healthy food?

I write this as a woman who loves her comfort food and desserts. I'm a bit of a sugar addict, and before becoming vegans, Ian and I would enjoy pizza and ice cream most Friday nights. But, as Ian and I have Felicity at our dinner table with us for most meals, we are becoming increasingly aware of the importance of providing her (and ourselves) with balanced, nutritious meals. While I fully anticipate that she will love cupcakes and ice cream as much as the next child, I also want Felicity to have a love of whole foods. I want her to have a love of vegetables and fruits, and to like eating beans and lentils. I want her to appreciate creativity and thought in the kitchen. I want her to like colors (not artificial!) on her plate. I want her to see comfort food and sweet things as occasional treats, not the norm. I want her to think that juice and soda are too sweet, and to not see sweet beverages as a way to quench thirst.

I recognize that feeding your child well and thoughtfully is a privilege. It's a privilege to afford good fruits and vegetables, to have the time and energy to prepare nutritious and interesting meals, and to be able to control everything that is put in front of your baby. Many women, many parents, do not have these luxuries. Yet I cannot help but feel that there is something very wrong with the environment that even has "childrens" foods for the "picky eater," a phenomenon that apparently is rare in France.

I also recognize that, because I'm writing and releasing this post into the great wide world, I will be doomed with a future fussy eater.

The Obnoxious "Check Out My Cute Baby" Post

You were warned. She's super cute.

As we're reaching the end of July, I've been reviewing the pictures from this month. We (read me) didn't take as many as usual, and they seem to mostly consist of Felicity eating food and being either really excited about it, or super serious about it. 

Felicity's first crackers. Love at first fistful.

Flick is super serious about the investment in Mexican food. So serious, she shoved most of it under the clamps of her chair. I see your angle here, baby.

Baby helps with laundry, is distracted by streamers on fan.

Young Baby is Unamused by Father Reading in French; Only Wants Forbidden Treats and Nap.

Finally!

It looks like the FDA has finally banned BPA from baby bottles and sippy cups. Now we just need to focus on banning any plastic with BPA or PVC in it from everything else being sold. Easier said than done, that's for sure.

How Does a Dinosaur Clean Up Her Room?

I've mentioned before that we love the "How Do Dinosaurs" series by Jane Yolen and Mark Teague.

Earlier this afternoon, Ian was reading to Felicity. They were sitting on the floor, Felicity on his lap. I heard Ian start the next book: "How does a dinosaur clean up her room?" he read, followed by "Certainly not by our example!"

I heard this as I was stepping over a clothes pile in the next room, attempting to walk to the bathroom.

Truth.

Reclaim what now?

Bittylab, a new company just launched last year, is trying to get their BARE bottles off the ground. At first glance, everything seems great: the bottles are designed to mimic a woman's breast, they are free of so many of the nasty chemicals still found in many bottles and baby things, the company seems to be pro-breastfeeding, and they won a 2012 Eco Excellence Award.

Enter their marketing campaign this July on Twitter: "New Baby? Reclaim your wife. Meet BARE," and "Feeling like you're competing with your newborn for mommy's attention? Meet Bare."

While I give them (slight) props for marketing to men (whom most companies completely ignore when advertizing for baby, household, and cleaning products), Bittylab is suggesting that a wife is property to be reclaimed. As in, the wife, or her breasts, are the husband's property. Or, you know, a baby is competing for breast time because it needs to eat so it can grow and not die. Hopefully every new mom has heard by now: Breast is Best;* we should encourage as much nursing as possible!

And then let's look at the second ad for a moment. It either suggests that a) you feed your baby formula; or b) you pump and then bottle-feed your baby. The company's stance is pro-nursing, so the first is out, leaving the suggestion that a mother pump instead of nurse to save some time.

Speaking as *ahem* an experienced pumper, you would prefer that your partner stop everything, strip off her clothing, slather her nipples in lanisoh so they don't crack, connect her breasts to suction cups and a motor, and feel a little like a milking cow? While I appreciate that it's an option and enjoyed the opportunity and choice to pump when I need and wanted to, pumping is just not glamorous.** Pumps don't work as well or expediently as a baby's little bird mouth, and then you actually have to feed the baby the bottle later, not to mention wash and sanitize the bottles and pumping equipment. So it takes a lot longer, which doesn't really correspond with saving time using the bottle. Not to mention, a father really shouldn't be putting his own needs before his infant's needs. This seems to harken back to an era where the patriarch of the family was served their meal first, and makes all of the family decisions.

Oh Bittylab, why so sexist? Why such shameful advertising?

But it's okay everyone, they apologized on facebook!

Ladies, We're really sorry about the twitter campaign run last week. It was a huge miss understood and resulted in offensive messages. It was taken down yesterday. The messages had nothing to do with putting a husband needs before the baby's needs, it was more about having a little extra time for the rest of the family. Obviously the whole campaign was poorly executed. We apologize deeply for this miss understanding and assure you, from now on the campaigns will be closely monitored before they go out. Thank you for a second chance.

.... oh.... they didn't actually realize why the ads were offensive.

* While scientific studies do show that breastmilk is superior to formula for infant brain development, I fully understand that not all moms have success with breastfeeding. While I firmly believe that every mom should do their absolute best, even through the hellish acclimating period (the first 3-180 days), I do not judge those moms that are unable to continue. As long as they tried. Really hard.

** Notice how awkward our friend from 90's is here? Even though she's decked out with her special pumping bra and a cardboard computer, one can immediately tell that pumping is a really strange activity. And this picture? This picture is to actual pumping as a fast food burger ad is to the actual "product" they've convinced you is edible.

Top Ten Favorite Baby Books

This is a post dedicated to our favorite books to read to Felicity (and Felicity's favorite books to help read). These books are in no particular order, by the by.

Mathilda and the Orange Balloon is a delightfully illustrated book that encourages imagination and thinking outside the box. Mathilda is a courageous little sheep, and I do love a strong female lead. And really, isn't Mathilda a sweet name?

Birdsong was amongst the first of the children's books that I borrowed from the library when Felicity was just over a month old. It was the book that delighted her the most; Birdsong is filled with silly-looking birds with even sillier-sounding calls and is a treat to read aloud. It also has a sense of humor, which a parent will appreciate.

 Nothing is so sweet as reading this book with Ian and Felicity before bed. As one might expect, it is a kissing and counting book. "Ten little kisses for teeny tiny toes," and so forth. This is one of those books that can get Felicity giggling, even if she in a grand-fuss moments before.

Dr. Suess has authored some great books. Granted, Green Eggs and Ham has a certain sort of awful something out it (personally, it made me think about rape - pushing and pushing someone to do something they don't want to do until they give in, and then the victim "likes" it? sketchy). However, Dr. Seuss's Sleep Book is a nice account of contagious yawns, and a count of people falling asleep all over (though the way of tallying how many are falling asleep once again falls into the creepy side of Suess's imagination).

This is a fun book to read and act out. My favorite animal? The Crocodile. "Can you wiggle your hips like the crocodile? I can do it!" It might be the case the I have more fun than Felicity reading this book. Just maybe.

Jane Yolen and Mark Teague: what is there to say? Magic. This is one of the very sweetest books. Ian and I love the How Do Dinosaurs series, and this is probably the best. As Ian pointed out once, this series is one of the only that accurately portrays the emotional size of a child in their parents' lives. Of course, we change all of the pronouns to 'shes' and 'hers', because, you know, that's how we roll.

The Foot Book is Felicity's very favorite book. This is probably because I do my best to vocalize the the different kinds of feet ('up feet' gets read with the voice getting higher and higher, and 'pig feet' gets a loud oink, which always makes Felicity shriek with laughter).

And, after having read The Foot Book on average twice daily for the past... five months, I can say I'm not yet sick of it. And that's something.

My French-speaking husband loves to read to my French-listening baby. Felicity loves this book more than all of the other French books he's read to her. Apparently she's into adventure. She also likes to flip the pages. I can't understand a word, so I really don't have much else to say. The cover has nice colors!

 We bought this little board book in Albuquerque, NM when Felicity was five weeks old. Yep, love the dinosaur books. We purchase a set for all of our baby friends.

Bear has a strict bedtime routine and cannot be disturbed. Mouse comes to spend the night, and they have quite a little adventure. I just read over my description, and I promise that the book isn't as dirty as my blurb is. I promise. But really, this is a funny book, and the artwork is wonderful.

Happy Shrieks and Sleep Training Attempt #2

Here again after an almost three-week silence, in which we relocated ourselves to Michigan for the summer, after a brief trip to California to visit family.

Remember that sleep training that was starting awhile back? You do? Great. My child doesn't!

The week in California really wasn't too bad for small Felicity, now six and half months old. She mostly fell asleep in her car seat driving home from various late dinners, and we'd quietly transition her to a make-shift baby bed: a large arm-chair pushed up against the bed. We did try the roll-away crib in the first hotel, but I'm so short I couldn't even lift my baby out if she was laying down. This leads me to believe I'm going to have to get a stool or step to place next to our crib at home once she's able to pull herself up and stand in the crib, and we have to lower the mattress. Just let me start browsing on amazon.com now to drive myself crazy....

Anyways, California wasn't an issue, and she did her very baby best for her plane rides. On our first plane ride, a direct flight from New York City to Los Angeles that was a 'short' five and half hours, Felicity re-discovered her the high range of her vocal cords. She spent the first hour or two at a high, happy shriek that would not be quelled with a pacifier or soft hushes from parents. (We've since started praising her "indoor," quieter shrieks when she makes them inside, and she actually has learned to moniter her volume depending on if she's outside or inside, clever child!).

On the two plane rides from California to Michigan, Felicity was all about the raspberrying, especially fun to do on mom's shoulder when mom is wearing a tank or tube top! I believe our fellow passengers found this not as annoying as the shieking, albeit a bit gross. One never minds the spit of their own baby though, does one?

It was after we arrived in Ann Arbor that things took a turn for the worse. Going West is no problem for sleep - put in an extra nap, and a baby adjusts just fine to the time zone. Going East? Not so much. The first night she took a nap from 11:15-12:00 am, then was awake until after 2:00 am. We moved it back a little the next night, and then the next, and slowly find ourselves with a bedtime between 8:00-10:00 pm, about two hours later than she was going to sleep in New York. She seemed to have a really hard time falling asleep in this house (as do I, I'm not sure why), most likely a combination of being in a room by herself, new sounds, smells, temperatures (central air, hello Gorgeous!), and sleeping in a Pack'n Play, which is not nearly as cushy or nice-smelling as her organic mattress at home. Nor are there floral birds on the wall to admire.

The first full week here, she would only fall asleep nursing, and then would wake up every 5-10 minutes for an hour or more (one night this went on for three hours!) crying. She would sleep a little better in our bed, but then wake up and go through the whole cycle again when we moved her to her bed in the next room.

You may recall our initial sleep-training guidelines involved picking the baby up to comfort her if she was crying, but not unless she was crying. As our pediatrician pointed out, this can be tricky, and it's almost impossible to be consistent with (if the baby is asleep for fifteen minutes and we leave the room, then hear whimpering or crying that is on-again-off-again, it's really difficult to say exactly when to wait it out or pick her up). It also sends the message If I cry loudly enough, Mom or Dad will hold me... which can lead to extra crying (though I don't believe a baby is old enough to be "manipulative" at this point, all babies are smart enough to learn such patterns, and their behaviors will adjust to what they're learning). This and, at least by the time we arrived in Ann Arbor, Felicity would scream every time we laid her back down again after comforting her in our arms.

So, the new method:

1. Full bedtime routine if we're home: baby has dinner with us, bath, lotion, bedtime nurse with dimmed lights, story with dad, and a duet of Go to Sleep Little Baby. (At least all of this has been consistent for a few weeks, save the eating dinner with us, which she is now old enough to do).
2.  Shortened bedime routine if we've been out (Ian and I are just not willing to compromise all socializing, especially as we are the only couple with a baby in our social circle): shortened storytime, bedtime nurse, and her song.
3. We hold/rock her until she's drowsy, then lay her in her bed, and don't pick her up again. All calming comes from small pats, a hand on the chest, soft words, and singing. If she's calm, hands off, but staying in the room if she's at all fussy.
4. Encouraging attachment to her blanket/lovey to find comfort in.

We've been using this method for a little over a week now (using the shortened method three nights when we had activities with friends, or a nice dinner out) and I am proud to report that Felicity is once again a fantastic little sleeper! She is able to fall asleep by herself, often without us even in the room. 

For those of you who have used sleep training methods, what has worked or not worked? Were you able to follow through with the sleep training?

Breastfeeding & Eliminating Foods/Dairy

As yet another mom bemoaned giving up dairy and "gassy foods" (broccoli, potatoes, etc.) in my mom's support group last week, I had to really bite my tongue to avoid blurting out, "It probably won't change anything!"

It's another of the many controversies surrounding breastfeeding: does what a mother eats and drinks cause gas and discomfort in her breastfed baby? I liked this post by Secrets of Baby Behavior, and Kelly Mom (always an excellent source of information) writes that if there is a problem, it's more than likely a food allergy, which are rare and almost always have accompanying symptoms.

I didn't change my diet at all for breastfeeding. I try to eat a balanced diet (which may involve slightly too much Thai takeout and ice cream, but we're doing our best), but I wasn't willing to give up anything because it didn't seem worth it. As much as I could tell, Felicity had some gassy days, and some non-gassy days. They didn't seem to be tied at all to what I was consuming, and we conquered all with cuddles, belly rubs, and gripe water (or the occasional dose of Mylicon). While she may not be as fussy or gassy as many babies, and may respond more positively to the interventions I named above, I simply cannot believe that over 50% of babies (as evidenced by the number of moms that I know that have eliminated dairy and/or other things from their diet) have food allergies or an intolerance for milk.

Sleep Training / Heartbreak in 7B

Somehow I thought our baby would be different. At four days old, she was already sleeping 3-4 hours at a stretch. She's been sleeping through the night since she was three months old, and sleeping for 10-11 hour stretches for the past month or so.

But getting this five and half month-old baby to sleep is a whole different matter. Yes it's great she stays asleep, but it is to the point where every nap and bedtime are a struggle, taking 90-120 minutes sometimes. A baby that refuses to nap, even a baby that sleeps well at night, is a cranky, unhappy baby, which makes for a cranky, unhappy mom (that's me!).

So Ian and I sat down today for an hour or two and talked through the various methods of sleep-training. There are so many approaches, most of which seem cruel. Letting your baby cry for hours on end? How terrible, even if you are in the room where they can see you, not comforting them or holding them seems so strict. They're so little, how are they to understand?

We made a detailed plan, with contingencies for excessively long crying jags and napping. While we cannot call ourselves attachment-style parents completely, we nurse on demand, hold the baby as much as possible, and co-slept with her for her first three months (now she just gets the late morning). Her primary transportation is the baby carrier, usually strapped onto Ian's chest. Our version of sleep training is the most 'relaxed' it can get - picking her up and soothing her whenever she starts to actually cry (more than a fuss or short protest), staying in the room with her, and keeping a hand or two on her chest and/or head if she's at all distressed.

We have been doing... whatever works. Usually this means over an hour of fussing and crying, me hoping she'll nurse to sleep, but most likely ending in a long walk down Broadway in the stroller, or Ian rocking her in the stroller, back and forth over the lip in our kitchen doorway. As I said, it was time consuming and frustrating, and our bedtime routine didn't seem to make any difference - if she knew it was time to sleep, tears, tears, tears. Poor thing.

Everything we read said to try to have the baby to sleep approximately twelve hours before they naturally wake up. Her normal wake-up time is between 5:30-6:30 AM, so we decided on a goal of getting her to sleep around 6:00 PM, which means starting her bedtime routine (bath, baby massage, last nurse/bottle, story, and bedtime song) around 5:15-5:30 PM. It seems insanely early. It is insanely early. Don't let the baby fall asleep while you're doing these things! Put her down drowsy!

As I was nursing her this evening and she started to drift off, I started to cry. I nudged her back awake, whispering, "Not yet, Felicity, stay awake for me please." I cried because my little baby is now a surprisingly large baby, who is expressive and opinionated, and I don't get to rock her to sleep anymore. I love rocking her to sleep, nursing her into oblivion. Granted these methods haven't been working that well, but they are still such rewarding moments. Everyone said how quickly these first months would go, and how right they were. I did my best to stay present in each day and treasure all of the small moments, but they still go by so fast, and I want my newborn back. I want to hold her, and have her fall asleep on my chest with her sweet little pre-vocal sigh,

It took about an hour tonight. Ian stayed in the bedroom with her the whole time, and when she would start to cry, one of us would pick her up, calm her down, and hold her. Then she would lay back in crib. She would give us looks of deep betrayal, whimper a little (we would put a hand on her chest, or on her head, give her kisses), and then the crying would start again. Eventually she was exhausted, and fell asleep.

I think about how I get when I don't feel well. I am a cuddly person, probably annoyingly so. Ian probably wishes I would peel myself off of him sometimes, and occasionally has to express this wish on particularly warm nights. When I'm not feeling well, I just want to be held. Migraine? Hold me now, rub my head. Bad day? Hold me, rub my back, glass of white wine please. Allergies? Hold me, please kiss my forehead. And, as Ian likes to remind me, I'm not a perfect picture of health; something always seems to be wrong with me. I strained my upper arm casing a pillow last night. All of this to say, it feels wrong to not soothe her until she's in a blissful, deep sleep.

This has been the most difficult emotional milestone of motherhood yet. But we're just starting, aren't we? This is the first step of her independence and separation from me, and I suppose I need to get used to the idea that she can't always fall asleep cuddled in my arms, wonderful as that may be.

I find it heartbreaking.

The Big, Bad World

This is what I am thinking tonight:
How do I raise this little girl to be fearless, when I am so often afraid of what people will think?
How do I raise this little girl to conquer, when I so often can't get started?
How do I raise this little girl to be confident, when I'm stuck second guessing myself?

Little Felicity, it won't be easy to be strong. Being a woman is hard work, the world around you makes it hard. People expect you to be whole and to be every stereotypical woman at once, but you can't. You can't be a whole human being and have all of these conflicting identities.

There is strength in saying "No." There is strength in choosing for yourself who you are and how you show the world who that person is. There is strength in abandoning what is expected of you, and even more strength in not caring.

Three hours later...

"Beware the easy bedtime."
Truer words ne'er were spake.

Babyproofing: Are we saving the apartment from her, or her from the apartment?

We're leaving for Ann Arbor, Michigan in a few weeks, and our subletters will move in. Their daughter is a few days older than Felicity. Felicity, we realize, will start crawling, probably a whole lot sooner than we're ready for. Sitting? Check. Scooting backwards while on tummy? Check. Tummy time and neck pro? Check.

Where has the time gone. No, seriously, someone place tell me where the time has gone!

While Felicity certainly won't be crawling before we're gone for the summer, her small friend will be here all summer, and will most likely start crawling while living in our apartment. So it's been a day to think about childproofing. You find me $150 poorer (just take my soul now, diapers.com), with no less than fifteen items being delivered so we can protect Felicity from our dangerous ways, and protect our dangerous ways from Felicity.

And there are so many interesting childproofing things to be had! I think we're all familiar with the soft edges for the coffee table, and the snappy thing-a-ma-bobbers (why yes, that is certainly their technical term) to make it more difficult to open cabinets and drawers, but now there are all of these other things I'll be a Bad Mother if I don't spend our hard earned money on:

• Toilet seat lock
• Foam padding to prevent doors from shutting
• Furniture locks for refrigerators and ovens
• Knob covers for the stove (this one really does make a lot of sense)
• A lock you put at the top of the door, presumably to lock a child in a room. 
• Door knob handle locks
• A rubber duck that turns red if the bathwater is too hot

Electrical outlet covers I can get down with, and we did invest in two security gates to keep our child corralled for peace of mind, but some of this is a bit much. Did I buy the blue whale that covers the bathtup faucet? Yes, but mostly because it's adorable. I think of what my parents had when I was a child, and then how my sister is raising her toddler (and the much-anticipated Baby #2) in Honduras, and I think we're all going to be okay.

Will I put safety snaps on the drawers to prevent Felicity from accessing knives and cutting off a finger? Yes, no doubt. Will I put foam pads on our doors so I can never have a moment of privacy again? Absolutely not. Child, I will pee in peace, knowing you are safely confined to one room with no hard edges or exposed outlets.

Where is the line between protecting a child from danger and being overly-protective and not allowing her to learn for herself?