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Category: boobs

4 month olds are so… distracted

October 28, 2014 / / 4 Comments

Patience. It’s something I’ve never really had much of. Now all of a sudden I need it in droves. Because to be a parent, I’ve come to find out, you essentially need two things — patience and effort.

The thing that’s trying my patience recently is my super distracted 4 month old. I guess at 4 months you realize that the world is actually kind of cool and there’s lots of stuff to do besides just eat, poop, and sleep. This means everything blows your mind. It’s super hilarious and fun to watch, but in terms of breastfeeding, might be the worst thing ever. Little E has decided that breastfeeding is perhaps the most boring thing in the world and he’d much rather do a complete backbend to look at that lamp. Or that picture. Or the cat. Or that miniscule spot on the empty wall. Or perhaps I’ll just shoot mom an adorable smile and talk to her for a bit. So, what does all this distraction mean for me? Pain and torture, friends. Pain and torture.

OMGOMGOMG! That camera and this pumpkin are so sweet, mom!!!

OMGOMGOMG! That camera and this pumpkin are so sweet, mom!!!

Each one of those backbends means my boob gets mangled. Plus, my stress level goes through the roof because my kid isn’t actually eating. And considering I’m only responsible for a very few things at this point in regards to my child (food, sleep, and comfort), when I can’t seem to do one well, I get a little crazy. Yes son, your mom is a little edgy and Type A, and if you keep eating for 30 seconds at a time, she might just lose it completely. Ok, not just might. I did actually lose it completely. I collapsed into a crying heap on Sunday after baby mealtime included not just backbends but angry thrashing because I wouldn’t let him JUST GET DOWN AND DO WHAT HE WANTED. I thought that kind of crap didn’t start until at least 6 months or something, but apparently I was super wrong. Because toys and playing need to happen right now, mom. Eating is boring and dumb.

Well kid, I’m sorry, but I want you to have gloriously chunky thighs. And the only way we accomplish this goal is for you to eat.

So, in a panic I called my dear friend the lactation consultant. The first thing she did was laugh. The second thing she did was tell me that this was going to be my life now. Her suggestions to fix our little distraction problem? Lock yourself in a super quiet room and don’t let anyone in. Wear a “nursing necklace.” Feed him and then feed him again in 10 minutes when maybe he’s ready for another 2 minute sesh. Or just feed him right after a nap when he’s groggy and hasn’t quite realized the wall is super cool again. Most importantly, she said, have patience.

I can tell you right now that all of this is not what I wanted to hear. Especially that part about patience.

Sadly, I guess, the days are gone when I could stop his crying or make him feel better with a nice, fancy meal anywhere and everywhere he desired. Instead, I get to confine us to dark room with blank walls 300 times a day and wear a necklace with little knitted rainbow balls. It most certainly looks nothing like this:

Breastfeeding is so glam.

Breastfeeding is so glam.

Did any of you, dear dozen readers, have a super distracted baby? How did you handle it?

 

An open letter to my right boob

September 17, 2014 / / 0 Comments

Dear Righty,

Get your shit together.

Every day is not some sort of all-you-can-eat Thanksgiving dinner buffet. You need to learn the subtle art of supply and demand. My almost three month old’s stomach is only the size of a chicken egg, so why do you insist on creating 5-7 ounces of milk by yourself? In case you didn’t know, 5-7 ounces in my what used to be A cup REALLY HURTS. You’ve got your lifelong friend Lefty to back you up if you wanted her to. She’s rocking 3.5-4 ounces on the regular herself, so together you guys are over-freakin’-whelming. Not to mention when I look in the mirror, I’m visibly lopsided. You’re going to turn me into a social pariah. “Oh, there goes Tara. Man, her boobs are SO uneven.” That’s what they’re going to be saying about us, Righty. Do you want that? I know I don’t.

You're partied out, man. Again.

You’re partied out, man. Again.

Just so you know, I’m having a hard time keeping up with the snacks to feed your ridiculous milk making habits. My jaw hurts from chewing what seems like thousands of granola bars, and it’s still not enough for you. I swear you’re going to consume me in some kind of black hole-esque vortex if you keep this up, so stop stealing so many pounds off my body. I’d like to not be a waif, for E’s sake. No one likes cuddling with the mommy version of Skeletor. (Although now that I think about it, Skeletor was pretty muscle-y. How about cuddling with Skeletor’s face. That part was bony and haggard, for sure.)

I don’t know, maybe you’ve got the boob version of Napoleon Complex. I know you used to be the smaller boob in our old life, but that doesn’t mean you have to take it out on me now that you’ve discovered your power. You weren’t that much smaller. No one noticed, I promise. You can end this campaign of conquest, this neverending stream of pain and suffering. I respect you now.

You probably won’t listen to my pleading, but I felt I had to try. Otherwise this is going to be a long year of unnecessary cursing and painful grimaces. So, if you could, just save us both some time and energy and slow your roll. This letter may come off a little harsh, but you know I love you baby. I mean, you know that, right?

With respect,

Tara

You overproduce? What a nice problem to have.

August 13, 2014 / / 6 Comments
Freezer-Milk

My life’s work. That and my actual kid.

Breastfeeding should be easy. It’s what your body was made to do, right? The natural way. Well, nature is really messed up sometimes, y’all.

If you had asked me before baby if I thought I would be the breast milk overproducer of the family, I would have laughed in your face. These A and a half cups? No way. Try my mom or sister’s Ds.

But guess what? Size apparently doesn’t matter. I can produce enough breast milk to feed all the babies in Denver. It’s like a superpower. But with great power comes great responsibility, and pain, it turns out.

At the hospital I was super paranoid about making sure E latched correctly. I would buzz the nurses six times a day to come and check. “He’s on right… right?” They assured me his latch was perfect. I was feeling pretty good about myself and my baby. We’re doing this! I’m making food and you’re eating it! Nice.

But then my milk came in. And it wouldn’t stop. By day five I looked like I had undergone some kind of breast augmentation surgery. They were triple Ds – huge, shiny, and hot (temperature, not looks, I assure you). When I would lay down it felt like I was being crushed by overheated boulders. I slept maybe three hours over the next two days.

Even worse was they were so full E was having trouble latching. All that food and I thought he was going to starve. Irony at its finest. So, I called in reinforcements.

Lactation consultants are angels sent from boob heaven. Yes, she cost almost $200 for an hour visit, but I would have paid three times that. She came in full of cheer and knowledge. She weighed E pre and post feeding. Despite my fears, he gained 3 ounces after he nursed. He wasn’t starving after all. Momma on the other hand was in dire straights. “Pump,” the lactation consultant said, “Pump until you get the milk out.” So I did. Here’s how my next week and a half went. The following period of time was all done topless, regardless of who was in the room:

  • Feed E until satisfied, about 15 minutes.
  • Hand baby to Peter or mom.
  • Pump at least 10 minutes on both sides, massaging breasts until bruises form.* (Ok, she told me not to do that bruising part. Oops. I was desperate, you guys.)
  • Ice boobs for 5 minutes each.
  • Try to sleep. Try to sleep. Try to sleep. I can’t sleep. Oh, god, I can’t sleep. Am I going to die? I can’t sleep. Start singing songs from Pitch Perfect in an attempt to soothe myself. I can’t sleep.
  • Repeat every 2 hours.

*My hands got so sore, I called in the big guns. Yes, Peter massaged my boobs. Sometimes with my mom in the same room. Christ, y’all, motherhood is embarrassing.

If you’re a numbers sort of a person, that left anywhere from an hour to an hour and a half to try and sleep after each feeding. Considering my HIGH levels of anxiety and horrible ability to day sleep, let’s just say I was looking and feeling pretty rough at this point.

But the result? A freezer full of breast milk and a 10 pound baby after two weeks of life. That’s right – E gained his birth weight and then some. A whole extra pound of some. I felt accomplished. I had made a giant baby.

I'm 13 and a half pounds at 6 weeks? No friggin' way, mom.

I’m 13 and a half pounds at 6 weeks? No friggin’ way, mom.

Here’s the rub. Every time I tell this story, this is what I hear: “You overproduce? What a nice problem to have.” Ok, yes, I have a strong and healthy baby. But when you have to watch him choke and sputter, latch and relatch over and over (ouch, people), and see him get sprayed in the face because your boobs are like sucking on the end of a fire hose, it’s hard for me to think this is a nice problem to have. Not to mention the gas, excessive spit up, overabundance of dirty diapers, and colic-like symptoms due to the above. Plus, every time he starts sleeping in longer stretches the giant boobs of pain happen all over again (although not as crazy as the first time).

However, just like everything else I’ve experienced so far with motherhood, it does get better. My giant baby (up to at least 13.5 pounds now) already sleeps in 4 and 5 hour chunks at night likely thanks to my boobs and his weight. He always feels satisfied, and I never have to worry about him going hungry. I overproduce, and I’ve come to learn that it can in fact be a nice problem to have.

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