We have a new world order around Chez Squished. The boy is sleeping alone. Through the night. All night. In his own room. Without a bottle. A moment is in order to digest the magnitude of this fantastic milestone. Of course, measures have been taken to make this come about. It’s been a journey, beginning with the decision, for safety’s sake, to put him in his own room, followed by a fairly successful first night. We learned that the tension style safety gate in his doorway makes him feel too abandoned or trapped. I found a set of Kidco safety gates on Craigslist for a bargain, and we now have a very secure stairwell. I’ve put tension gates in the doorways of the other rooms, and left his room open, and my room open. He now has a free path to our room should he need it, if he wakes up afraid. Simply having an open doorway has done wonders for his perception of things. And, since I’m married to Mr. Gadget, we now have the child on nighttime surveillance.
The camera is mounted so that I have a full view of my munchkin all snug as a bug in a rug. Mr. Gadget claims to have had these gadgets all along (the usual story), and is just retrieving them from the places where he’s had them squirreled away. I do know that he won the mini DVD player in a company raffle, so that gadget is legit. The others Not so sure. But I’m not complaining. In my sleepy stupor I can press a button and check in on my sleeping munchkin. I can see if he’s scooted his way out of his blankets or if he’s scooted himself into the corner. Tomorrow is our first Saturday with this arrangement, which means I can sleep in (or at least pretend to). I’m looking forward to seeing if he wakes up happy and comes looking for me, or if he stops to play with his toys along the way.
A first. A very good first. Last night the beautiful boy spent the night, alone, in his own room. He fell asleep very early, around 6 p.m., because we got off schedule during the weekend. So he awoke around 10 and played for a while. We took him to bed around 11 and both of us lay down with him, hoping for him to settle. With no bottle. He squirmed, he squirmed, he tossed, and turned, he whined and fussed, he… This is starting to sound like Dr. Seuss. Anyway, it went on. And on. We finally caved and gave him half a bottle. He inhaled it and was none too happy when it was all gone, but I did the deft binky switch maneuver, and he went for it. It helps to be too tired to fight. I tiptoed out of the room, but he heard me, lifted his head, and started to cry. Oh, the most heart wrenching how could you leave me cry. So I lay back down and got snuggly buggly again. Which I like very much. It only took an extra 5 or 10 minutes, and I tiptoed back to my room. His door is open and gated, my door is open and down the hall. The monitor is on. I can hear him if he needs me. He slept until morning. Ahhh, bliss. I’m crossing my fingers that it wasn’t a fluke and that he’ll make it through the night tonight.
When I awoke to whimpering at 4 a.m. the other day, and found my child lodged beneath my dresser, I decided it’s time for him to learn to sleep in his own room. We had his room ready when he came home from the hospital with him, over a year ago, but never actually used it. It began to collect things, until it was filled with bags and boxes and ribbons. It had become, and stayed, the gift wrapping room. We moved all the non-baby things out, and I put a cube shelf unit in his closet for his clothes (which were conveniently in the laundry room until now). We gathered most of the toys from around the house and arranged them on shelves for him. We left a few of his favorites downstairs. I put a queen mattress directly on the floor and finally found a use for the crib bumper that I’d worked so hard to make him, over a year ago. It is now a queen mattress bumper. It’s just a bit longer than the two sides of the mattress that meet the wall, and they provide a little amount of cushion when he’s scooting himself across the mattress in the middle of the night, half asleep. He does that. Like a little mole. His face is down and he scoots on his stomach with his butt up in the air, scoot scoot scoot, here, there, back again. He moves quite a lot in his sleep. We’re working on a night-night routine, and I’ve been sleeping with him until he is familiar with the room. I’m also weaning him from night time bottles. This is alot to throw at him at once, but I’m tired of washing sheets every single day, if I don’t wake up at 2 a.m. to change him (and risk waking him as well).
He likes to have me right where he is, so it’s hard to get anything done. I’ve been trying to clean out my spare room and turn it into my craft room, thus giving myself precedence over my non-existent guests. I finally got him to take a nap, and he had a nice long rest. He just woke up and I’m marveling in the moment. I can hear him happily playing and singing and cooing and having a good time. I don’t want him to see me and decide he has to cry until I come be with him, so here I am, blogging, but more importantly, hiding from him. Hiding from my own son!
It’s been about twenty minutes. He’s been alone long enough now, and is starting to lose interest with the things in his room. I must go snuggle my Boo!
Nine Thousand Two Hundred Eighty point Two ounces. One Thousand One Hundred Ten point Five hours. Seventy Two point Five gallons. Forty Six point Three days. These are the numbers of my commitment to nourish my baby with mother’s milk. Mother’s milk drawn drip by feeble drip from a disappointingly under-productive set of double-dees. Oh, sweet nectar of life. How hard you made me work for you. Two rounds of galactagogues. Four pumps – the first pump didn’t cut the mustard, and we had to bring in the big guns. The second was a hospital rental while I scrambled to find my own on eBay, the third. Then one night, a few months later, during the midnight shift, the belt slipped from the shaft and the workhorse would work no more. Enter the fourth, another rental to see me through while my workhorse companion traveled to the land of Medela for service, because it is nigh unto impossible to acquire a simple little part to fix it oneself. No, one must have factory authorized service, shipping and insurance, for over a hundred dollars. (To their credit, the pump returned fully refurbished, with all new parts, shining as though it were brand new.)
It’s been a long journey. I was heartbroken that my beautiful boy wouldn’t nurse. Heartbroken. It’s not that big of a deal, people would say to me. An entire generation was raised on formula, when breastfeeding was no longer de la mode, my doctor told me. But it was a big deal to me. It mattered to me. I wanted that full natural mother experience. I wanted the labor. I wanted the natural delivery. I wanted to breastfeed. Those first post-partum days were difficult for me. I struggled with such a load of self-inflicted disappointment. Disappointment that I didn’t labor. The baby didn’t even drop, let alone get ready for any journey out. He was quite happy where he was, or perhaps he was too big to drop. He was 10 lbs 7 oz, after all, at 39 weeks. No contractions. No labor. No natural delivery. Scheduled C-section at 39 weeks. And then, where was the milk The lactation consultants assured me that the baby was getting what he needed from the measly drops of colostrom that my defective mammaries produced. They were wrong. How disappointed I was with the supply issues I faced, on top of everything else. I didn’t even produce enough for a normal sized baby, yet here I was trying to feed my supersized child. I couldn’t do it. Even with the help of galactagogues, and pumping for hours upon hours, I still had to supplement with formula. It was exhausting, to have to pump so frequently and for such a long time. Sleep when baby sleeps, everyone told me. But I had to pump. Because I wanted to hold him, and try to breastfeed him, when he was awake. I was so stubborn! I wanted him to have the benefits of breast milk, and by golly, he was going to get it. Again, in retrospect, I shouldn’t have been so neurotic. I should have gotten some more sleep.
He did nurse a few times. I have a wonderful and warm memory of those few precious moments where we bonded, skin to skin, baby to mother, the way it was supposed to be. For that experience, I am forever grateful.
In the early days when life was little more than a blur, I told myself I could do it, I could make it to two months. Poor little big guy was a colicky boy, to top things off. Because I needed to experience a screaming child wailing for hours upon hours, who would only settle down if continually bounced. And I had plenty of time and energy for that, between feeding attempts and pumping. Obviously. Of course.
We got through the colic, and I set my sights on six months. It seemed like forever, but they say that six months is the magic line where health benefits are evident. Six months. I could make it, I told myself. And I did. I found a routine, finally, where I could get some sleep, not nearly as much as I’d like, but enough to keep my sanity. I managed to supply 75-80% of his milk needs, in the first six months.
Having a routine helped, so I made a new goal. One year. Twelve months. You can do it, I told myself. There were many times that I nearly gave up. But I persevered, and I made it. After he started solids, at six months, and after the second round of galacatogues, I was eventually able to supply nearly 100% of his milk needs.
Looking back, I’m not sure why I was so resolute. Perhaps it was because I had been barren for so many years. Perhaps it was because I knew that this might be the only child I could ever have, and this was a one time opportunity. I do have a strapping healthy boy, and I am grateful.
If there is a next time, I don’t know that I’d make this kind of a milk commitment again. If there is a next time, I will maintain the hope that my baby will nurse, I’ll pump to avoid engorgement, and I’ll start the fenugreek early. If there is a next time, I may not keep as copious notes.
It’s all my fault. I should have checked the diaper bag before we left the daycare. But I didn’t. Instead, we went merrily on our way. Once home we had dinner, a bath, got into the jammies, and settled down for a bottle, before night-night. It was then that I realized we were sans binkie. No problem, I thought. He’s not addicted. He can manage a night without it. But he squirmed. He writhed. He tossed. He arched his body into unnatural contortions. He whined. He whimpered. He. Didn’t. Fall. Asleep. This went on. And on. We have a couple of backup binkies. The Soothie was his first favorite. He used it for several months. I lost one, and we managed to survive with the remaining one until he decided he no longer liked it. I found it and tried to give it to him. But it just wouldn’t do. I tried his teether binkie. He likes to chew on it, but not suck on it. He knew the difference. He spit it out and continued to writhe.
It’s all my fault, this addiction. He wasn’t dependent before, but a couple of months ago he started grinding his teeth and I just couldn’t stand that sound. It was worse than fingernails on a chalkboard, or running your finger around the rim of a glass to make it ring. It was excruciating to hear. So I’d stuff the binkie in his mouth the instant he started grinding. Bad mother. Bad mother.
I handed the writhing unhappy and exhausted child to the husband and went upstairs in search of something I vaguely remembered stashing away with other baby things passed on from friends, over a year ago, when I was stocking up and preparing for motherhood. Aha! A bag of binkies. They weren’t the right kind (when things like nipple confusion mattered), and they were used, so I’d never actually brought them out before. But this was an emergency. I gathered them all and brought them downstairs, sterilized them, cooled them down, and offered them to the unhappy child. He would have none of it. He’d open his mouth, taste it, then fling it across the room. Soon the lot of them lay scattered and dejected on the living room floor.
The husband shook his head at me and said, “That’s why I always check the diaper bag before we leave.” Yes. Right. But we won’t go into that.
“Shall I go to the daycare and get it “ he asked. “No, it’s too late,” I replied. So I sent him to the store. I wanted my baby to get to sleep, poor little guy. It couldn’t be just any binkie. It had to be a specific kind, and we’ve only seen it in two places. Babies R Us and _____. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember the name of the store where we’d happened to see the exact kind in stock. I thought of getting them for backup or emergencies, but decided that the love bug is nearly a year old and should be weaning from it shortly, and surely we could manage on the two that we already have. Surely they will last as long as he needs them. Of course, a few days later I was washing one of them and noticed he’d chewed all the way through it and it had become a choking hazard. In the trash it went, with no further ado. Still, I thought we’d be able to make it with the one remaining. “Babies R Us is too far away. I think it was Albertson’s“, I finally said. “And if not, it’s probably Price Savers or Rite Aid“.
Off he went. I tried giving the boy a bottle again. His routine is to drink all but the last half ounce in his bottle, spit it out, take the binkie, and crane his head and neck into the shape of a question mark, and drift off contentedly to sleep while clutching my hand and fiddling with the heart charm on my bracelet. It’s his routine. Poor little guy was so exhausted that he did fall asleep while drinking from the bottle. Daddy arrived an hour later, after going to Albertson’s, Rite Aid, and having begged the checker at Price Savers, which was closed, to show him the styles they carried by holding them up to the glass of the shut door. Not the right ones. They were nowhere to be found. He finally tried Target, and what do you know. That’s where we saw them!
I put my sleeping boy to bed and placed the new binkie within reach so that when he started squirming at midnight, as he always does, he would find it, place it in his mouth, and drift contentedly back to sleep.
I love how he grasps my fingers with all his little might when he’s tired and settling down to sleep. He pulls my hand to his face and doesn’t let go.
My heart swells. It is indescribable, this feeling of being wanted and needed. I drink it up, breathe it in. It fills me up.
I know I shouldn’t indulge him with too much coddling. There is a balance that I need to find, where he can know he’s secure in me, that he is wanted and needed and loved, and where I know he’s developing self-confidence, trust, and independence.
It is difficult for me. I caress his sweet little face until he drifts off to sleep. I slowly pry my fingers away.
I love the sound of this word! It makes me think of giant sea turtles. I know why. Phonetic association. We had a radio in our kitchen when I was growing up and my mom used to listen to NPR and the radio reader, Dick Estelle. I recall fragments like “archipelago” and some “g” word. At first I think it must be The Gulag Archipelago, but no, that’s not about giant sea turtles. Maybe Dick Estelle read the Gulag Archipelago on the Radio Reader. That would have taken quite some time. The “g” word must be “Galapagos”. The Galapagos Archipelago has giant sea turtles. I wonder what book that was. It makes me think of James Michener.
Alas, galactagogues have nothing to do with giant sea turtles. A galactagogue is an agent that promotes the secretion and flow of milk. I’m trying to boost my milk supply. Buggaboo started daycare this week and suddenly his formula consumption is up to 12 oz/day and he has a runny nose. He IS teething, so perhaps his immune system is compromised a bit, and he is now exposed to five other wee ones on a daily basis. I want him to have more mother’s milk and less supplementation.
I’ve sported these double-D’s for nearly three decades, and in my time of need when they were called into duty, who would have thought that they wouldn’t produce My poor hungry Buggaboo. Nursing was a nightmare. He wouldn’t latch properly and got angry that nothing was there anyway. His weight dropped alarmingly and off to the hospital we went. The lactation specialist had me pump and after 30 minutes I had only 28 cc. I opted for a prescription galactagogue –Reglan. It’s not actually a galactagogue by design. That’s just a bonus side effect. I think it’s normally prescribed to reduce nausea in cancer patients. It has other undesirable side effects as well, namely lethargia and depression. Just what a mother needs in those post-partum days. I took it for two weeks. I recall that I couldn’t talk to anybody for two weeks (depression) and I would literally pass out for a little while each night. I know those first few weeks are a blur of crazy mood changes and exhaustion anyway, so don’t know how much of that was exacerbated by the Reglan. It helped with the milk supply though. I still had to supplement, but I was able to produce about 750 cc/day, which is a dramatic improvement from the measly 250 cc I was able to pump prior to that.
I need to make more though! I read up on Fenugreek and started taking it last week. It seems to be the wonder cure for many things. Why didn’t I try this earlier I might have been able to avoid supplementation altogether. I hope it works for me. I’ve been able to pump around 825 cc/day this week. My Buggaboo eats a lot! He started out at 10 lbs 7 oz, and is now around 25 lbs. He is six months old now, healthy and beautiful. I am very blessed.
