Category: breastfeeding

Unsolicited advice for all these new summer moms

March 30, 2015 / Tara / 2 Comments

Judging from Facebook and also a few real life conversations, I’m pretty sure the world’s population is going to triple this summer, with an abnormally large spike in August. I’m glad so many of you had a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

So, I’m about to do that thing that no first time (or anytime) parent likes. Give unsolicited advice. However, I feel like I can get away with it for two reasons:

It’s passive advice. I’m putting it in this blog. If you want it, cool. If not, then just don’t read any further. Simple as that.
I had a summer baby. Like, literally, last summer. Which is still hard for me to believe, but I also think gives me a tiny bit of street cred.

That baby I had last summer. All new and shiny.

Ok, so onward with the advice. Just so you know, this isn’t going to be about specific products or anything like that, but things I just wish I had known or found to be truly important in keeping my sanity during one of the craziest times in my entire life.

Train yourself to fall asleep quickly. You know all those dumb people that tell you to “get your sleep now”? Don’t waste your time with that BS. Last time I checked, Sleep Banks don’t exist. Instead figure out how to go from awake to asleep in 5 minutes or less. Because seriously, sometimes all that baby is going to give you is 30 minutes to sleep, and if it takes you that long or longer (in my case) to fall asleep, you’re going to be one super extra tired momma.
Get a comfy couch and chair. Look, whether you like it or not, someone at some point is going to end up sleeping on the couch. Make sure your couch is so awesome you don’t really mind that at all. Also, get a REALLY comfy chair, especially if you’re nursing. I thought I could get away with just using the chairs I have. Not true. One week in, and I had emergency purchased a lovely, reclining rocking chair. Breastfeeding mommas will spend more time in that chair than you thought humanly possible. So make it count.
Find your favorite walking routes, and try to make sure they include coffee shops. The only thing that helped me keep my sanity was walking about five miles a day. Once I found a few routes that had food and coffee, things got infinitely better. I could fuel up and get a few adult words in with the folks that worked there. Plus, when you’re five seconds from your breaking point, it’s nice to hear people gush over your baby. It makes things feel a little bit better. That being said, I feel so, so sorry for moms of winter babies in Colorado.
You think you want to “be by ourselves the first two weeks so we can get to know baby”? Think again. Peter and I talked about asking people to wait a few weeks before coming to visit so I could heal and we could get to know our new family. I’m so glad we reconsidered. We needed more help in those first two weeks than I’ve ever needed in my whole life. Thankfully, E has the best grandparents in the world, and they were totally up to the task.
If you’re going to take any classes, make sure they’re ones that help you AFTER the baby is born. Look, that baby is going to come out in whatever way it pleases. Then, you have a baby. And they let you take it home, no questions asked. It cries, it won’t eat, it eats too much and then gets gassy and cries more, it wakes up at 2 a.m. for no reason at all. I wish I had found some classes that gave me more techniques to try to calm a crying baby. After a while, I felt like I had exhausted my repertoire. But thankfully, that’s when Teeny would step in and say, “Have you tried _____?” Usually, I hadn’t. Sometimes it would work, sometimes it wouldn’t, but at least I felt like I had one more tool in my arsenal.
Embrace change, uncertainty, and being totally out of control. Your life isn’t yours anymore — it’s ours. That means there’s another (strong) voice in the room that may just decide you aren’t going to the grocery store this afternoon. Or hanging out with your friends. Or finishing that bite of sandwich. The quicker you can figure out ways to cope with having zero control over your life anymore, the better.
Don’t buy one of those beautiful cribs with the solid wood headboard. This is for when baby gets a little older. Those hollow sounding thunks and booms in the middle of the night? That’s your baby’s beautiful head getting bashed on that headboard. And as far as I can tell, there isn’t a bumper product on the market that can save their little noggin.* Ugh.

Alright, folks. There it is. I’m sure there are more (of course there are more), but these seemed to stick out right now in my still–although not as badly–sleep deprived mind. You’re in for a wild, beautiful ride. Hang on with both hands and don’t let go.

*If you know of something please, for the love, let me know. E’s head thanks you.

My baby now! Pulling up on everything, like a boss.

Yup, we’re mobile.

February 2, 2015 / Tara / 0 Comments

He waited exactly one day after turning 7 months to start army crawling. It’s this hilarious maneuver where he sticks his tush up in the air, wiggles it from side to side, and once he has enough momentum, drags himself across the floor with his arms. He only moves about six inches, but that’s plenty of mobility to say, grab the cat or dog, a charging cord — or if we’re lucky — a sanctioned and approved toy on his play mat. Of course with this monumental achievement came the regular I’m-not-going-to-sleep-because-this-is-awesome-let’s-party routine at 2 a.m. for a few nights. Everyone made it though. In some cases (me), just barely.

Army crawling and balancing on all fours. It’s about to get real.

The best part? I was home to see it. I seriously saw it first. Yes, I was sleep deprived and barely hanging on, but I saw my boy discover the freedom of movement. I witnessed the pride on his face when the water bottle that had been eluding him for months was finally something he could get ahold of all by himself. And I loved it.

In other words, working part time is so far pretty awesome.

Regarding the job, I know it’s only been two weeks, but I friggin’ love it. I’m on a small team, which means I get to do everything tip to tail with very few layers of approval. Plus, I get to help start their social media program from scratch, which is always exciting. But almost as exciting as the job was the fact that I almost got to pump with Peanut.

See, one of the therapies they do at Mount Saint Vincent is animal-assisted therapy. They have dogs visit, go to a ranch to learn how to ride horses, and they have a guinea pig that lives there named Peanut. Peanut hangs out in a room by himself on the 2nd floor of the main building. The kids come by a few times a day to feed him snacks and say hey, but for the most part it’s pretty vacant. But for a brief moment, Peanut almost had the opportunity to get the show of his life and a little company from yours truly three times a day.

The staff had been on a building wide hunt for most of the morning on my first day trying to find a space with a door that locked where I could pump. I share an office, so as cool as it is to kick my officemate out so I can have some oh-so-awkward workplace naked time, they figured I might want a different space to conduct my business. And the first location that came to mind was Peanut’s house. Sadly, my weekly column that was going to be known as “Pumping with Peanut,” will never see the light of day. They found me a supply closet two doors down from Peanut where I could pump. And I have to say, I’m a little disappointed. “Pumping in the supply closet” just doesn’t have the same appeal. Oh well. The pump probably would have given Peanut a heart attack anyway.

In conclusion, here is one more adorable photo of E. Because I’m at home more and I take boatloads of photos. So there.

Looking dapper in our Kennedy sweater.

It’s official. I’m a milk donor.

November 7, 2014 / Tara / 1 Comment

If you’ve read my blog before, then you know that I have a little problem with milk overproduction. While certainly better than the opposite issue, my overactive cans have caused their fair share of pain and problems. Well, now my pain is gain for other babies. I am officially a milk donor.

I get enough to eat. As evidenced by my leg, wrist, and neck rolls.

I have to say, I had no idea milk donation was even a thing until a few months ago. But oh the things you learn! There are apparently human milk banks across the country whose goal is to provide safe, pasteurized milk to babies who need it because of medical conditions such as formula intolerance or feeding issues related to prematurity. Coincidentally, there just so happens to be one right here in Denver not two miles from where I work. Score.

People had been telling me about it for a while, but ever the procrastinator, I waited until the freezer was so full that whenever you opened it you risked some kind of frozen lactose landslide (more on that later). When I finally realized that I had well over 200 ounces crammed in there, I figured it was about time that I made the call to the bank.

As it turns out, they couldn’t have been nicer people. I was treated like some kind of royal guest — constantly with an escort, showered with gifts of milk collection bags and pump sanitation gear, told stories of how my milk would save lives. They run their operation much like a blood bank, so there’s a blood test required and you have to fill out a questionnaire with things on it like, “Have you been to west Africa?” and “Have you received money, drugs, or other payment for sex?” There are also a few additional breastfeeding specific questions about medications, herbal supplements, alcohol, and caffeine. And of course, it has to be ok’d by E’s doctor. As it turns out, I’m pretty squeaky clean and both Elliott and I are ideal candidates for milk donation. So they gave me a donor number.

The next step was to drop off my milk. First, I had to make sure all of my little frozen packets were labeled with month, day, year, and donor number. This required pulling them out of the freezer, something I decided to do after the baby was asleep one night since it’s the only time I had to do it. Of course, like a bad game of Jenga, I pulled one packet out and they all started to slide. Dozens of rock solid frozen packets started slamming into the hardwood floor, baby sleeping just on the other side of the wall, and there was nothing I could do about it except desperately try to slam the door shut again. Peter came flying up the stairs from the basement and started “yelling” in an angry whisper, “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING??” Of course I fire back in my best Jack Bauer loud-whisper-for-dramatic-effect, “I’M TRYING TO GET THIS MILK OUT OF THE FREEZER. WHAT DOES IT LOOK LIKE I’M DOING. STOP YELLING AT ME.” Then like a nice husband, he grabbed a towel and crouched under the freezer door to catch anything that fell out, which of course it didn’t because he was there.

All my little frozen milk packets ready for delivery.

The next morning I took 84 ounces of milk in frozen packets to the milk bank. A smiling woman met me at my car with a reusable grocery bag and whisked away all of my hard pumped work. Part of me was a little bit sad, strangely enough. But a larger part of me couldn’t be happier.

So to all those overproducing gals out there, keep on expressing yourself (pffffffffffffhahahaha). Then find a milk bank and donate. You, other babies and moms — and your freezer — will be glad you did.

4 month olds are so… distracted

October 28, 2014 / Tara / 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!!!

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.

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 / Tara / 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.

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

Back to work

September 15, 2014 / Tara / 2 Comments

When I walked into the office this morning it was dark. I guess that’s what things look like around here at 7:30 a.m. I wouldn’t know because I’ve never really gotten to work that early before except on a few special occasions. But 7:30 a.m. will be my new arrival time. 8 a.m. on a bad day. Whoa.

E and mommy before work.

Looking at my desk was like looking at some kind of ancient archaeological dig site. Everything was exactly how I left it except covered in dust. It was like a window into my old life, pre-E me preserved in a bottle. I booted up my computer, opened my inbox, and stared at the 3,500+ emails that were waiting for me. It seems my out of office message did A LOT of good. Sigh. I pushed the delete button hard. With one hand. Because I had to pump.

After putting my kid’s midmorning snack into the office fridge (weird), something came over me. I MUST CLEAN. All of a sudden I was recycling stack after stack of old papers and wiping down every surface with Clorox wipes. It was so frenzied I was practically foaming at the mouth. Cleaning is kind of a normal stress response for me, but this cleaning rampage was just a little different. I felt a strong need to erase all of it. I couldn’t stand looking at these artifacts of the way things were. I didn’t want any reminders — I’m a new person, so my office should be too.

As I tore through the paper stacks, people started to show up at work and I was greeted with tons of warm welcomes and “Whoa! It’s Tara!” I’m not going to lie, it was nice. I missed seeing all of these adult faces and having all of these varied grown up conversations. Yes, we talked about my boy, but we talked about other things too. I felt a little bit more well rounded already.

After I sifted through my emails, finished my cleaning binge and said hi to all my work friends, I had to sit down. My head was humming. Only 3 hours in, and I was totally exhausted. I hadn’t used my mind this much in so long it felt like it was melting. Not to worry though, because I had the perfect excuse to sit. It was time to pump again (ugh)! That’s going to get really old, really fast.

The afternoon was a blur. Catching up on projects, figuring out what I’ll need to work on in the coming weeks, answering more emails, pumping again, eating candy, doing whatever bits of work I actually felt comfortable doing (i.e. I know it well enough not to screw it up). More head spinning.

A little play time before work this morning.

So, to summarize, my first day back at work was… interesting. Yes, I had to pump and yes I was only running on about 5 hours of sleep, so I felt different, but work was the same. And I was happy about that. For once in 12 weeks something is delightfully just how I remember it. Of course it’s going to be hard, but I ACTUALLY KNOW HOW TO DO THIS. That’s a feeling I haven’t had in forever. Plus, I can pee when I want and I finished my lunch on my own schedule. No matter how hard it is to leave E’s little face at daycare, I think in the end working is what’s right for me and my family at this moment. In the end, I’ll be a better mom because of it.

Insomnia sucks

September 5, 2014 / Tara / 8 Comments

I used to be that girl who fell asleep at parties at 10 p.m. if I was tired and then go home and get another 8 hours. I’m sure Peter found it pretty embarrassing, but his lame party habit is to find the nearest computer and start tinkering, so I guess it could be worse. And, wow, based on these descriptions I don’t know how we weren’t invited to EVERY PARTY IN DENVER. I digress.

Sadly, since I had a baby I’ve developed some kind of mommy insomnia. Yes, I can still fall asleep early, but I wake up at midnight. Every. Night. E has been kind of a killer sleeper lately, going down at around 9 p.m. and staying asleep until 2 a.m., and sometimes even 4:30 a.m. (whoa). It’s like a parent’s dream.

Sleeping baby gets the whole couch. And the remotes. Thankfully, he left it on the U.S. Open quarterfinal. So thoughtful.

But not for me, apparently. My night goes like this. Tiny sound? Wake up. Not a tiny sound? Wake up. Twinge of pain in my overly full boob? Wake up. Dream about E, Peter and I living in a post apocalyptic version of America and trying to find diapers in a zombie infested grocery store? Wake up. And then it’s over. I can’t fall asleep again until the baby wakes up and gets fed. Then, after that, it takes me at least an hour to doze off, if I do at all. And don’t even get me started on my ability to “sleep when the baby sleeps” during the day*. It’s a cruel reality I live in, y’all.

I don’t know, maybe my body has just conditioned itself to live off of 5 hours of sleep and has decided I don’t need anymore than that because it’s greedy or something. Or maybe I’m turning into my mother, who for years has only been able to sleep 3 or 4 hours a night. Please say it isn’t so.

I guess the point of this sleep deprived ramble is to ask a question. How do you out there get yourself to fall asleep? Count sheep? Enya? I need to know your secrets.

Love,
Tara (mommy insomnia) Hubner

*I could write a whole separate blog post on how much I hate when people say, “oh, just sleep when the baby sleeps.” It was one of the horrible things I’d repeat in my head during the first month that kept me awake, filled with anxiety. That and the Trace Adkins jam, “You’re Going to Miss This.” What an asshole.

But, it seriously doesn’t work like that. At least for me. I applaud those for whom it does work. Good on ya.

Things I’ve dribbled on my baby

August 26, 2014 / Tara / 2 Comments

Hay, girl.

Babies need to be held a lot. That means you learn to do stuff with one hand. When you do stuff with one hand while holding a baby, stuff ends up on your baby. Here’s a list of the more entertaining things I’ve dribbled and dropped on my child thus far:

Pancake syrup
Granola
Blood (I had a nosebleed. Sick.)
Root beer float
Tortilla
TV remote

Girl’s gotta eat.

Regarding the nosebleed, here I was just minding my own business, watching the Ryan Reynolds classic Waiting, E sleeping on my lap. Then I felt it. A nosebleed just feels so much different than, say, a runny nose. I put my hand up to my face and when I pulled it away, there it was. Blood. So I did what any normal person would do. I jumped straight up off the couch and let my baby fall into the huge divot where my ass had been, covered in blood drops. Of course he starts crying, but I’m too busy in the bathroom trying to plug up the fountain coming out of my face to deal with it. Once I got a sufficient amount of toilet paper crammed up my nose, I went and rescued E out of the couch hole. Still screaming, I decided his lunchtime had come a little early. So, I fed him with my head tilted back and a wad of TP hanging out of my nose. It was totally glamorous.

How we work. And the couch that creates such amazing divots.

You overproduce? What a nice problem to have.

August 13, 2014 / Tara / 6 Comments

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.

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.