Today I learned to never ever ever for the love of God talk politics on facebook. No matter how smart a person is in the whole rest of their life they will become a screaming demon asking "HOW COULD YOU VOTE FOR THAT GUY?! MY GUY WAS WAY BETTER!!"
Today I learned not to hide the obnoxious musical toy from Tommy in the play pen because the kitten will also hide in there and set the damn thing off constantly.
Today I learned that I need to buy moisturizer.
I learned that an aquarium light won't electrocute the fish if a 2 year old puts it in the fish tank.
I learned that 3 Colace only work for a day.
I learned that I am addicted to granola bars. Delicious, satisfying, constipating granola bars.
I learned that there really hasn't been any good end of the world music since the fall of Russia. What do you know, communism was good for something. (Good end of the world music here and here.)
Wednesday, November 03, 2010
Tuesday, November 02, 2010
November 1 learnings
I learned that I hate baby headbands. It's about as subtle as a onesie that says "Yes I am bald but there's a vagina in my diaper" (I feel the same way about earrings on a baby), and the disproportionately huge flower attached to baby headbands these days just makes the kid look off balance.
I learned that it's possible for a kid to bring home an honor roll report card for last quarter while simultaneously flunking 3 classes this quarter.
I learned that the above grade scenario confuses my brain and makes my tummy hurt.
I learned that if you're going to live off hastily gobbled granola bars for a few days, you might want to eat a Colace or two every now and then.
I learned that it's better to be called a hypocrite than to refuse to learn from your mistakes. Yes, I did that and yes, I am against it and no, I won't let my kids do it.
I learned that recipes are very rarely written out for single portions and that I have no idea what to do with the rest since no one seems eager to eat homemade English muffins but me.
I learned that it's possible for a kid to bring home an honor roll report card for last quarter while simultaneously flunking 3 classes this quarter.
I learned that the above grade scenario confuses my brain and makes my tummy hurt.
I learned that if you're going to live off hastily gobbled granola bars for a few days, you might want to eat a Colace or two every now and then.
I learned that it's better to be called a hypocrite than to refuse to learn from your mistakes. Yes, I did that and yes, I am against it and no, I won't let my kids do it.
I learned that recipes are very rarely written out for single portions and that I have no idea what to do with the rest since no one seems eager to eat homemade English muffins but me.
Monday, November 01, 2010
I've been forgetting!
Yesterday (Halloween) I learned that if it means candy, a kid can talk to strangers all damn night.
I learned that my son prefers Skittles to just about anything else.
I learned that cocoa on the stove is 100X better than powder dust.
I learned that cocoa on the stove burns easily. :(
I learned no to go to the house that hands out unfrozen popsicles. (Vanburen house, just fyi.)
I learned that Monica Gibler looks surprisingly good in green grease paint.
I learned to wear gloves on Halloween, as your hands get pretty cold pushing a stroller.
I learned that my son prefers Skittles to just about anything else.
I learned that cocoa on the stove is 100X better than powder dust.
I learned that cocoa on the stove burns easily. :(
I learned no to go to the house that hands out unfrozen popsicles. (Vanburen house, just fyi.)
I learned that Monica Gibler looks surprisingly good in green grease paint.
I learned to wear gloves on Halloween, as your hands get pretty cold pushing a stroller.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
What I learned, 10/27
The power went out last night, rendering the house unfathomably dark, the computer unusable, and Tommy thrilled to be allowed to take a flashlight to bed since his night light was out. So here's what I learned yesterday.
I learned that lesbians like Swiss Miss hot cocoa, which really is the most appropriate brand for them, if you think about it.
I learned that $60 for an hour long massage isn't overpriced at all. In fact, it's money I should start spending often.
I learned that nothing is more awesome for a 2 year old than candle light and his own flashlight.
I learned that not all 2 year olds are ready to be potty trained, and that hot wheel cars love to race through "water".
I learned that hot wheel cars are dishwasher safe.
I learned that it is possible for a dog pen to blow 30 feet and drag a beagle leashed to it behind it.
I learned that a beagle, when faced with her own survival, can break a metal choke chain.
I learned to always chain the dog to the fence, not the pen.
I learned that lesbians like Swiss Miss hot cocoa, which really is the most appropriate brand for them, if you think about it.
I learned that $60 for an hour long massage isn't overpriced at all. In fact, it's money I should start spending often.
I learned that nothing is more awesome for a 2 year old than candle light and his own flashlight.
I learned that not all 2 year olds are ready to be potty trained, and that hot wheel cars love to race through "water".
I learned that hot wheel cars are dishwasher safe.
I learned that it is possible for a dog pen to blow 30 feet and drag a beagle leashed to it behind it.
I learned that a beagle, when faced with her own survival, can break a metal choke chain.
I learned to always chain the dog to the fence, not the pen.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Pit bulls suck
Okay seriously, pit bulls suck. But it's not their fault that they suck. They have been deliberately and effectively bred to attack and not to stop. Now, you can raise a dog not to attack, but breeding often wins out. I can try to train my beagle not to chase rabbits, or a chihuahua not to yap, or a greyhound not to run, but they will always revert back to breeding at some point or another. Pitbulls, when faced with anything they take to be aggression, want to attack it. They may resist the urge 99% of the time, but that 1% that they do give in can really hurt. And it's not their fault.
Pit Bull lovers are the ones at fault. When a baby has his testicles eaten, it's not the dog's fault, or even the mother who set the baby down asleep in his carrier. When a 3 day old baby lying on a bed is mauled and killed by the family pit bull, it's not the dog's fault. It's the people who say every day that owners, not breed, determine a dog's temperament. The people who convinced the parents that the kid was safe around the dog, that it was possible to predict the dog's behavior based on how you raised the dog, that pit bulls will not attack a creature prone to sudden movements and loud outbursts as long as it wasn't taught specifically to attack. It's the age-old nature vs nurture argument, and it has in many instances been disproved People used to think gender was all in how you were raised, but now they know it's inborn. And just like this, some day people will realize that some breeds of dogs are just more aggressive than others. And the stupidest part of it is, they already do!
The same person who swears their pet pit bull would never hurt a fly because they raised him nice are always quick to also point out that they'd trust their pit bull with a baby before they would a chihuahua because "little dogs bite more". So which is it, that breed means nothing or that it does? If chihuahuas are more quick to bite as a breed, then you're arguing against yourself. But even so, chihuahuas bite and then let go. Pit bulls hang on until they're dead, and they don't always let go even then. But it's not their fault. It's not a schizophrenic's fault when he kills someone he thinks is following him with a bomb. But if there were a large segment of the population out there claiming that unmedicated schizophrenics are safe as long as their parents raised them right, it would be those folks' fault when the hot dog stand guy gets jumped for waving a ketchup bottle.
Pit Bull lovers are the ones at fault. When a baby has his testicles eaten, it's not the dog's fault, or even the mother who set the baby down asleep in his carrier. When a 3 day old baby lying on a bed is mauled and killed by the family pit bull, it's not the dog's fault. It's the people who say every day that owners, not breed, determine a dog's temperament. The people who convinced the parents that the kid was safe around the dog, that it was possible to predict the dog's behavior based on how you raised the dog, that pit bulls will not attack a creature prone to sudden movements and loud outbursts as long as it wasn't taught specifically to attack. It's the age-old nature vs nurture argument, and it has in many instances been disproved People used to think gender was all in how you were raised, but now they know it's inborn. And just like this, some day people will realize that some breeds of dogs are just more aggressive than others. And the stupidest part of it is, they already do!
The same person who swears their pet pit bull would never hurt a fly because they raised him nice are always quick to also point out that they'd trust their pit bull with a baby before they would a chihuahua because "little dogs bite more". So which is it, that breed means nothing or that it does? If chihuahuas are more quick to bite as a breed, then you're arguing against yourself. But even so, chihuahuas bite and then let go. Pit bulls hang on until they're dead, and they don't always let go even then. But it's not their fault. It's not a schizophrenic's fault when he kills someone he thinks is following him with a bomb. But if there were a large segment of the population out there claiming that unmedicated schizophrenics are safe as long as their parents raised them right, it would be those folks' fault when the hot dog stand guy gets jumped for waving a ketchup bottle.
from last night
Oops, I forgot.
Today (yesterday) I learned that doctors will reschedule your appointments without ever consulting you, and then get upset when you don't show up 3 hours earlier than the time you had booked. Seriously, I don't care if you left a voicemail telling me you were changing the appointment time! Appointments are a mutually agreed upon thing, and if I don't agree to it it isn't scheduled. I think next time I need a pap I'm just going to call after hours and make myself an appointment without them. "Um, yeah, hi. This is Charlie Melton. I was wondering if I could just come in for a pap tomorrow at eleven. I'm gonna go ahead and write that down and if it doesn't work for you, feel free to call here before three o'clock this afternoon."
I also learned that no matter what appointment time Medical Associates thinks they have you down for, their robo-caller reminder computer will change it by up to a half an hour. A 3:30 appointment becomes 3:50, and a 12:45 appointment becomes 1:00.
Today (yesterday) I learned that if I make enough food to feed a small army, my 12 year old daughter won't be hungry, but if I make a normal amount of food, she'll go back for fifths. Fifths!
And that's about all. It was a slow day.
Today (yesterday) I learned that doctors will reschedule your appointments without ever consulting you, and then get upset when you don't show up 3 hours earlier than the time you had booked. Seriously, I don't care if you left a voicemail telling me you were changing the appointment time! Appointments are a mutually agreed upon thing, and if I don't agree to it it isn't scheduled. I think next time I need a pap I'm just going to call after hours and make myself an appointment without them. "Um, yeah, hi. This is Charlie Melton. I was wondering if I could just come in for a pap tomorrow at eleven. I'm gonna go ahead and write that down and if it doesn't work for you, feel free to call here before three o'clock this afternoon."
I also learned that no matter what appointment time Medical Associates thinks they have you down for, their robo-caller reminder computer will change it by up to a half an hour. A 3:30 appointment becomes 3:50, and a 12:45 appointment becomes 1:00.
Today (yesterday) I learned that if I make enough food to feed a small army, my 12 year old daughter won't be hungry, but if I make a normal amount of food, she'll go back for fifths. Fifths!
And that's about all. It was a slow day.
Monday, October 25, 2010
A la Doogie Howser
I've decided that every night before bed (for as long as I stick with it) I will post things I have learned that day, no matter how mundane. I hope that this will help me appreciate life more, to see that I learn something new every day. Either that or I'll realize that I learn nothing, and fall into a deep depression. Either way, here it goes.
Today I learned that a 14 year old boy can wander town for over an hour during a school day and no one will notice. If I had known this 20 years ago, I would have cut school a lot more. I assumed it would attract attention.
Today I learned that typhoons can strike the midwest.
Today I learned that coffee beans are actually cherry pits.
That's all.
Today I learned that a 14 year old boy can wander town for over an hour during a school day and no one will notice. If I had known this 20 years ago, I would have cut school a lot more. I assumed it would attract attention.
Today I learned that typhoons can strike the midwest.
Today I learned that coffee beans are actually cherry pits.
That's all.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
I'm a thousand years old
Last night Tom and I went out for our anniversary dinner, and I wore make up. It's the only day of the year I'm guaranteed to wear make up, so I always take my time and do it right. And on the drive to the restaurant I glanced in the visor mirror and noticed that my make up had filled into tiny wrinkles under my eyes and made them stand out. I looked old. Combined with the fact that I'm letting my hair grow out natural, I looked really old. And you want to know a secret? I liked it.
I have known too many people who never got to be old. Derek died in high school; he never got to be old. Aaron died 3 months after graduation; he never got to be old. Smokey died in his thirties, as did Jeff and Chris, and none of them got to be old. I want to get to be old. I want gray hair and wrinkles, and grandchildren and knobby knuckles and brown spots on the back of my hands. I want the privilege of arthritis and the prize of menopause. I want it all.
Of course I worry that when I'm turning 50 Tom will still be looking at 18 year olds. And I certainly don't want to look 20 years older than I am. But life is a downhill slope and it's always more fun to roll down the hill fast than to desperately try to claw your way back up. "There's nothing tragic about being 50, not unless you try to be 25." I really believe that. Also the old saw about how life isn't about looking good in the casket but about how much fun you have getting there. I don't want my last thought to be worrying that I ate too much at lunch, or that I'm hungry because I only had a salad. I also don't want to live so long that my last thought is hoping the next aid to change my diaper is gentle with it. I want to live long enough that I've accomplished my list but not so long that living is a burden. And if I have wrinkles under my eyes already, I'm not going to waste any of my precious time now worrying about it. Life only has so many hours in it (often less than we'd like) and I'm not going to waste them covering my grays, or peering at my wrinkles (or injecting my head with botulism), or clinging to a childhood and youth I didn't much enjoy when I had it.
Somewhere along the line I learned, from media or society or whatever, that as long as I felt like shit it was okay. As long as I hate my thighs, it's okay. I may be fat, but at least I know it and am fully aware of how terrible it is. As long as I'm miserable about my complexion it's okay. I may have zits but at least I'm trying to get rid of them, as evidenced by my obsessing self-hatred over it. This is why you see all sorts of women all the time announcing "I'm so fat," or "I look like Hell," unsolicited: to alleviate guilt. But now I have decided that I'm tired of hating things about myself and feeling ugly for other people. My lips have tiny lines coming out from them. It's from years of puckering up around cigarettes, I know, and eventually I will be unable to wear lipstick without it running off into those lines. But I'm not going to hate it any more. I sag, and am larger than need be, and some parts of me wait to stop moving until the rest of me has been still for an awkwardly long time. But so what? When I die, am I going to regret not obsessing about it all, or am I going to regret the time I wasted freaking out about it just so maybe people wouldn't insult me if I beat them to it?
I want to be an old lady, in a rocking chair, fat enough to give my grandkids a soft lap to sit in. I want to stop hating myself because the inventors of photoshop made it possible for every billboard, commercial, or print ad to make actual mortal people somehow seem inadequate.
I have known too many people who never got to be old. Derek died in high school; he never got to be old. Aaron died 3 months after graduation; he never got to be old. Smokey died in his thirties, as did Jeff and Chris, and none of them got to be old. I want to get to be old. I want gray hair and wrinkles, and grandchildren and knobby knuckles and brown spots on the back of my hands. I want the privilege of arthritis and the prize of menopause. I want it all.
Of course I worry that when I'm turning 50 Tom will still be looking at 18 year olds. And I certainly don't want to look 20 years older than I am. But life is a downhill slope and it's always more fun to roll down the hill fast than to desperately try to claw your way back up. "There's nothing tragic about being 50, not unless you try to be 25." I really believe that. Also the old saw about how life isn't about looking good in the casket but about how much fun you have getting there. I don't want my last thought to be worrying that I ate too much at lunch, or that I'm hungry because I only had a salad. I also don't want to live so long that my last thought is hoping the next aid to change my diaper is gentle with it. I want to live long enough that I've accomplished my list but not so long that living is a burden. And if I have wrinkles under my eyes already, I'm not going to waste any of my precious time now worrying about it. Life only has so many hours in it (often less than we'd like) and I'm not going to waste them covering my grays, or peering at my wrinkles (or injecting my head with botulism), or clinging to a childhood and youth I didn't much enjoy when I had it.
Somewhere along the line I learned, from media or society or whatever, that as long as I felt like shit it was okay. As long as I hate my thighs, it's okay. I may be fat, but at least I know it and am fully aware of how terrible it is. As long as I'm miserable about my complexion it's okay. I may have zits but at least I'm trying to get rid of them, as evidenced by my obsessing self-hatred over it. This is why you see all sorts of women all the time announcing "I'm so fat," or "I look like Hell," unsolicited: to alleviate guilt. But now I have decided that I'm tired of hating things about myself and feeling ugly for other people. My lips have tiny lines coming out from them. It's from years of puckering up around cigarettes, I know, and eventually I will be unable to wear lipstick without it running off into those lines. But I'm not going to hate it any more. I sag, and am larger than need be, and some parts of me wait to stop moving until the rest of me has been still for an awkwardly long time. But so what? When I die, am I going to regret not obsessing about it all, or am I going to regret the time I wasted freaking out about it just so maybe people wouldn't insult me if I beat them to it?
I want to be an old lady, in a rocking chair, fat enough to give my grandkids a soft lap to sit in. I want to stop hating myself because the inventors of photoshop made it possible for every billboard, commercial, or print ad to make actual mortal people somehow seem inadequate.
Saturday, October 09, 2010
these are a few of my favorite things
The smell of burning dust you get when you turn the furnace on for the first time in autumn. It always makes me want to wrap up in a blanket and sit on the couch, as though fall and winter are officially here now that I've smelled the heater.
The little gold line on a Monarch butterfly cocoon. How do caterpillars make gold? I don't know, but it's a fitting part of the magic of turning a stripy green and black worm into a big orange butterfly.
The smell of Cornhuskers lotion. My father always kept a bottle by his kitchen sink and now whenever I start to miss him particularly bad, I grab my old bottle and take a whiff.
My morning coffee, when it's the perfect temperature that I can take long satisfying gulps without burning my throat.
Turning off all the lights except the Christmas lights and sitting in the warm glow of the tree sipping hot cider.
The silent moments when an infant tries to coo but doesn't know how to make the sound come out and just ends up making whispery "heh" sounds, and then the big smile on their face when they finally find their voice.
Finding the perfect figural teapot for my collection, where the handle and spout are so well worked into the design that they're almost hidden.
The way my husband sometimes rubs my hand while we lie in bed. It's nice that when he absentmindedly fidgets, that he does it at me.
Every winter Ryan decides to make a snowman, and every single time she decides to make it HUGE, and ends up with 3 giant snowballs on the ground because she can't lift any of them to form the snowman. I like that she never gives up and she always dreams big.
A nice hot cup of Sleepytime tea, when it's just a couple degrees hotter than that comfortable and I feel lit burn down into my stomach.
The little gold line on a Monarch butterfly cocoon. How do caterpillars make gold? I don't know, but it's a fitting part of the magic of turning a stripy green and black worm into a big orange butterfly.
The smell of Cornhuskers lotion. My father always kept a bottle by his kitchen sink and now whenever I start to miss him particularly bad, I grab my old bottle and take a whiff.
My morning coffee, when it's the perfect temperature that I can take long satisfying gulps without burning my throat.
Turning off all the lights except the Christmas lights and sitting in the warm glow of the tree sipping hot cider.
The silent moments when an infant tries to coo but doesn't know how to make the sound come out and just ends up making whispery "heh" sounds, and then the big smile on their face when they finally find their voice.
Finding the perfect figural teapot for my collection, where the handle and spout are so well worked into the design that they're almost hidden.
The way my husband sometimes rubs my hand while we lie in bed. It's nice that when he absentmindedly fidgets, that he does it at me.
Every winter Ryan decides to make a snowman, and every single time she decides to make it HUGE, and ends up with 3 giant snowballs on the ground because she can't lift any of them to form the snowman. I like that she never gives up and she always dreams big.
A nice hot cup of Sleepytime tea, when it's just a couple degrees hotter than that comfortable and I feel lit burn down into my stomach.
Friday, October 08, 2010
Why bother with it all?
I used to see the women who never leave the house without their make up and hair done and envy them. I envied their organization skills at least. It was all I could do just to get my hair and teeth brushed in the mornings; mascara and a flat iron were not part of my plans. But now I look at them and I wonder what it must be like to feel that you're not presentable unless altered. How must it feel to have to thicken eyelashes, color lips and cheeks, and line eyes just to be able to go to work, or even the grocery store. I have make up, and I wear it occasionally, for special occasions or predictable photo opportunities. But I don't dislike what I see in the mirror daily enough to have to artificially color or plump or conceal it before being seen. I do often look in the mirror, sigh, and declare that, "I look like shit." But most days I go on from there and don't look back. I've begun to think that fighting a physical reality is just a prescription for pain. Grays will always be there, wrinkles will form, under-eye circles will darken. Constantly battling to stay ahead, or just to keep pace with, the passage of time sounds exhausting. So I will leave the daily eyeliner and lipstick, the blow dryer and mousse, to those who feel they need them, for whatever reasons. I will be out in the world, naturally colored and textured, not even minding that they think I've let myself go.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Breast feeding tips and advice
La Leche League will tell you that as long as the baby is latched on right, breast feeding does not hurt. That's bullshit. For the first couple weeks, it hurts like a bitch. First it causes cramps (to prevent uterine hemorrhaging and also to return the uterus to its pre-pregnancy shape and location) and then there's just sore nipples. But after the first 2 weeks or so, it doesn't hurt at all unless the latch is wrong, and sometimes not even then. But if you're just starting and it hurts, and some idiot tells you that means your doing something wrong, ignore them.
Your breasts make colostrum before the baby's even born: yellowish sticky droplets that look nothing like real milk. This is all you'll make for the first 3-7 days of the baby's life and when other moms are shoving 2 ounces of formula into their babies you might feel like your baby can't be getting enough. Wrong. A newborn baby's stomach is literally the size of a marble, and it doesn't stretch. Most of those 2 ounces of formula generally gets spit up, while the colostrum that newborns need gets swallowed and digested and absorbed. Also I have heard mothers say that they had to supplement even before they left the hospital. Who lets them think that's right?
Breast fed babies eat every 1 1/2 to 2 hours. Formula fed babies can go 3 hours between feedings, but not because formula is any better than breast milk. In fact, it's just the opposite. Formula is chemicals, synthetic vitamins and minerals created in labs, and it's hard to digest. For this reason it sits in the stomach longer, making the baby feel full for longer, and causing the baby to skip meals. Breast milk is absolutely ideal and perfect for babies and is digested quickly and efficiently, giving the baby space in her stomach for the next meal to go. Nothing is worse than hearing a mother say that she supplemented because the baby ate too often, except to hear that she "scheduled" feedings every 3 hours or more.
Breast feeding is easy. Formula moms will tell you they used bottles because of the ease, but they're misguided. Formula has to be purchased, measured, mixed, warmed, and the bottles and nipples have to be sterilized. Boobs get washed in the shower (but don't use soap; it can dry the nipples and dry nipples can get sore from nursing) and that's it. No supplies to carry around in the diaper bag (except maybe a blanket if you're shy) and milk is always warm enough, never goes bad, never needs to be mixed or measured, and in the middle of the night you can nurse while you lay down and doze. In the very beginning, and usually only with the first child, it's all about how long on which side, foremilk and hindmilk, proper latch, and remembering which side you nursed on last, but after a month or so it becomes second nature and is the easiest thing in the world.
Breast fed babies have less colic, fewer ear infections, and carry their mothers' immunities longer than formula fed babies. They also test higher in school later on, probably because of the species-specific fats and proteins in breast milk. Also, formula fed babies are more likely to suffer stomach problems in infancy due to the cow-specific fats and proteins in formula. Obesity is more frequent in formula fed babies, too. To put it bluntly, nature intended human babies to drink human milk; cow's milk is for baby cows who are supposed to put on hundreds of pounds right away. We are the only species that, as a common practice, feed our young the milk of another species.
Breast feeding does not cause sagging. Pregnancy does. Breasts grow during pregnancy, and engorgement happens whether you nurse or not, both of which cause stretch marks and sagging. Nursing slows the shrinking back of breast tissue, often giving the supporting muscles and tendons time to adjust. If you just let your milk dry up right away the tendons and muscles can have a hard time keeping up. Also, women who nurse are more likely to wear a bra (often even to bed) in the beginning, helping to prevent sagging.
Nursing burns around 500 calories a day, helping women to lose pregnancy weight faster.
Formula, while generally safe, is always vulnerable to manufacturing errors, product recalls, and bad water. If your city is under a boil order and you don't find out until morning, all those bottles you fed your baby during the night become dangerous. If there's a problem at the formula factory and they recall a billion cans, how much of that formula was already eaten? Breast milk is safer from outside contamination. As for inside contamination, the myth that nursing mothers have to eat the perfect diet and abstain from all alcohol or medication is just wrong. Just like during pregnancy, a nursing mother should take a multi-vitamin and whatever nutrition she doesn't take in will be given to her milk rather than to her; the species is designed to propagate itself even at the expense of the mother. As for alcohol, one drink is metabolized per hour, from the blood and the milk. If you finish your beer at 6:00, you are free to nurse guilt-free at 7:00. And many medicines are considered safe while nursing, including many pain medications, cold and flu remedies, sleep aids, and antibiotics. Even a lot of birth controls are fine to take, depending on how the hormones might affect milk production.
Your breasts make colostrum before the baby's even born: yellowish sticky droplets that look nothing like real milk. This is all you'll make for the first 3-7 days of the baby's life and when other moms are shoving 2 ounces of formula into their babies you might feel like your baby can't be getting enough. Wrong. A newborn baby's stomach is literally the size of a marble, and it doesn't stretch. Most of those 2 ounces of formula generally gets spit up, while the colostrum that newborns need gets swallowed and digested and absorbed. Also I have heard mothers say that they had to supplement even before they left the hospital. Who lets them think that's right?
Breast fed babies eat every 1 1/2 to 2 hours. Formula fed babies can go 3 hours between feedings, but not because formula is any better than breast milk. In fact, it's just the opposite. Formula is chemicals, synthetic vitamins and minerals created in labs, and it's hard to digest. For this reason it sits in the stomach longer, making the baby feel full for longer, and causing the baby to skip meals. Breast milk is absolutely ideal and perfect for babies and is digested quickly and efficiently, giving the baby space in her stomach for the next meal to go. Nothing is worse than hearing a mother say that she supplemented because the baby ate too often, except to hear that she "scheduled" feedings every 3 hours or more.
Breast feeding is easy. Formula moms will tell you they used bottles because of the ease, but they're misguided. Formula has to be purchased, measured, mixed, warmed, and the bottles and nipples have to be sterilized. Boobs get washed in the shower (but don't use soap; it can dry the nipples and dry nipples can get sore from nursing) and that's it. No supplies to carry around in the diaper bag (except maybe a blanket if you're shy) and milk is always warm enough, never goes bad, never needs to be mixed or measured, and in the middle of the night you can nurse while you lay down and doze. In the very beginning, and usually only with the first child, it's all about how long on which side, foremilk and hindmilk, proper latch, and remembering which side you nursed on last, but after a month or so it becomes second nature and is the easiest thing in the world.
Breast fed babies have less colic, fewer ear infections, and carry their mothers' immunities longer than formula fed babies. They also test higher in school later on, probably because of the species-specific fats and proteins in breast milk. Also, formula fed babies are more likely to suffer stomach problems in infancy due to the cow-specific fats and proteins in formula. Obesity is more frequent in formula fed babies, too. To put it bluntly, nature intended human babies to drink human milk; cow's milk is for baby cows who are supposed to put on hundreds of pounds right away. We are the only species that, as a common practice, feed our young the milk of another species.
Breast feeding does not cause sagging. Pregnancy does. Breasts grow during pregnancy, and engorgement happens whether you nurse or not, both of which cause stretch marks and sagging. Nursing slows the shrinking back of breast tissue, often giving the supporting muscles and tendons time to adjust. If you just let your milk dry up right away the tendons and muscles can have a hard time keeping up. Also, women who nurse are more likely to wear a bra (often even to bed) in the beginning, helping to prevent sagging.
Nursing burns around 500 calories a day, helping women to lose pregnancy weight faster.
Formula, while generally safe, is always vulnerable to manufacturing errors, product recalls, and bad water. If your city is under a boil order and you don't find out until morning, all those bottles you fed your baby during the night become dangerous. If there's a problem at the formula factory and they recall a billion cans, how much of that formula was already eaten? Breast milk is safer from outside contamination. As for inside contamination, the myth that nursing mothers have to eat the perfect diet and abstain from all alcohol or medication is just wrong. Just like during pregnancy, a nursing mother should take a multi-vitamin and whatever nutrition she doesn't take in will be given to her milk rather than to her; the species is designed to propagate itself even at the expense of the mother. As for alcohol, one drink is metabolized per hour, from the blood and the milk. If you finish your beer at 6:00, you are free to nurse guilt-free at 7:00. And many medicines are considered safe while nursing, including many pain medications, cold and flu remedies, sleep aids, and antibiotics. Even a lot of birth controls are fine to take, depending on how the hormones might affect milk production.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Last church post, I hope
After my last rant against churches, having offended someone I seriously do not want to offend, I have given more thought to the church issue. I have figured out what bothers me and hope I am better able to articulate it now.
I read an article once that said the problem with churches today is that they water down the message to just "Be a good person", and there's more to Christianity than that. I disagree. I think there is nothing more than that. At it's core, I believe Christ's message was to be a good person. Don't judge, help the poor, go out in the world and give of yourself and be a good person. The problem is that too many churches, and too many individuals for that matter, have watered it down to just "Accept Jesus as your savior". People believe (not all of them but a lot of them) that as long as you believe that he existed and was the son of God and has the power to save you, then you're doing what you're supposed to. He said "follow me and you'll get to the kingdom" not "worship me and you'll get there". Follow, as in follow his example. Churches could be gathering places to incite revolution, to make people excited about doing things, not just talking about things. If every Sunday were a food drive, or collecting clothes for the homeless, or anything more than sitting around talking amongst themselves about how great Jesus was and how great it is to be Christian and how to always pray and give thanks. It seems to be very much about how to be a Christian even when just sitting rather than to be about not just sitting.
It's great to give a tithing every week and listen to sermons and make every third post on your facebook status about God, but how many of those people volunteer for charities?
I read an article once that said the problem with churches today is that they water down the message to just "Be a good person", and there's more to Christianity than that. I disagree. I think there is nothing more than that. At it's core, I believe Christ's message was to be a good person. Don't judge, help the poor, go out in the world and give of yourself and be a good person. The problem is that too many churches, and too many individuals for that matter, have watered it down to just "Accept Jesus as your savior". People believe (not all of them but a lot of them) that as long as you believe that he existed and was the son of God and has the power to save you, then you're doing what you're supposed to. He said "follow me and you'll get to the kingdom" not "worship me and you'll get there". Follow, as in follow his example. Churches could be gathering places to incite revolution, to make people excited about doing things, not just talking about things. If every Sunday were a food drive, or collecting clothes for the homeless, or anything more than sitting around talking amongst themselves about how great Jesus was and how great it is to be Christian and how to always pray and give thanks. It seems to be very much about how to be a Christian even when just sitting rather than to be about not just sitting.
It's great to give a tithing every week and listen to sermons and make every third post on your facebook status about God, but how many of those people volunteer for charities?
Tuesday, September 07, 2010
*sigh* I'm old
Is it sad to embrace age? I started this blog when I was turning 30 (and having a hard time of it) and envying an "exciting" friend I don't talk to any more, and while I'm not saying I won't have an equally bad time (or worse) turning 40, my main problem with aging now is worrying about where the line is between being comfortable with my age and "letting myself go" in Tom's eyes.
I have gray hairs. Now, let me preface this by saying that Tom is just plain gray. Not even salt and pepper anymore, but gray. A beautiful shiny silver that I love. Like Richard Gere (growl and waggle eyebrows). But I have gray hairs that society tells me I must dye over. I could go on a rant here about chemicals and the stink of hair dye, but the fact is that I dyed my hair for over a decade. But, I like gray. I'd love white, but I'll be happy when the gray grows out and I can actually see how much there is (scraggly bar-hag grays or actual streaks?). The way I see it, little kids know that some day they'll grow old and be gray and wrinkly; it's only the delusional an denial-ridden who grow to think they can avoid that fact.
I'm always cold. I used to puff out my chest and think that it was because I was so thin, but the fact is I just get cold. So I wear a sweater. It's a shapeless old cardigan grandpa sweater, but I love it. It does, however, make me feel like my grandmother when I wear it. I have even been known to shove tissues up the sleeves on occasion. Hopeless, I know.
I'm stuck in my ways. This is another example of me not knowing where the line is. Where does "routine" end and "rut" begin? When I was pregnant and had diabetes, I ate oatmeal every morning. Real, old-fashioned, unsweetened oats that had to soak overnight on the stove. After Danny was born, I was glad to be done with all the dietary rules, but soon realized that a fear of weight gain and Type 2 diabetes scared me away from a lot of foods. So now, every morning, I eat real, old-fashioned, unsweetened oatmeal. Only now, I splurge and put milk in it. It's not my only routine, but who wants to read (or publish) a list of ridiculous habits?
I try to "act my age". You know that lady at the store (or bar or PTA meeting or whatever) who wears shorts so short you can see her episiotomy scar? The one with her stretch marks hanging out of her crop top who pulls into the parking lot with Lady Gaga blaring out of her 2 door car with booster seats in back? Yeah, I don't want to be her. I wear long pants most of the time, I stopped going braless years ago (when there developed a noticeable lag between when I turned around and "they" did) and I shun all sparkly, sequined, glittery, or foil-printed clothing. I am an adult and I will dress like it, even if it makes me look like I'm 60. I'm a firm believer that, "There's nothing tragic about being 50, unless you try to be 25." I'm not 50 yet, but I think it's true for most ages that it just looks pathetic to try to be younger than you are.
I have gray hairs. Now, let me preface this by saying that Tom is just plain gray. Not even salt and pepper anymore, but gray. A beautiful shiny silver that I love. Like Richard Gere (growl and waggle eyebrows). But I have gray hairs that society tells me I must dye over. I could go on a rant here about chemicals and the stink of hair dye, but the fact is that I dyed my hair for over a decade. But, I like gray. I'd love white, but I'll be happy when the gray grows out and I can actually see how much there is (scraggly bar-hag grays or actual streaks?). The way I see it, little kids know that some day they'll grow old and be gray and wrinkly; it's only the delusional an denial-ridden who grow to think they can avoid that fact.
I'm always cold. I used to puff out my chest and think that it was because I was so thin, but the fact is I just get cold. So I wear a sweater. It's a shapeless old cardigan grandpa sweater, but I love it. It does, however, make me feel like my grandmother when I wear it. I have even been known to shove tissues up the sleeves on occasion. Hopeless, I know.
I'm stuck in my ways. This is another example of me not knowing where the line is. Where does "routine" end and "rut" begin? When I was pregnant and had diabetes, I ate oatmeal every morning. Real, old-fashioned, unsweetened oats that had to soak overnight on the stove. After Danny was born, I was glad to be done with all the dietary rules, but soon realized that a fear of weight gain and Type 2 diabetes scared me away from a lot of foods. So now, every morning, I eat real, old-fashioned, unsweetened oatmeal. Only now, I splurge and put milk in it. It's not my only routine, but who wants to read (or publish) a list of ridiculous habits?
I try to "act my age". You know that lady at the store (or bar or PTA meeting or whatever) who wears shorts so short you can see her episiotomy scar? The one with her stretch marks hanging out of her crop top who pulls into the parking lot with Lady Gaga blaring out of her 2 door car with booster seats in back? Yeah, I don't want to be her. I wear long pants most of the time, I stopped going braless years ago (when there developed a noticeable lag between when I turned around and "they" did) and I shun all sparkly, sequined, glittery, or foil-printed clothing. I am an adult and I will dress like it, even if it makes me look like I'm 60. I'm a firm believer that, "There's nothing tragic about being 50, unless you try to be 25." I'm not 50 yet, but I think it's true for most ages that it just looks pathetic to try to be younger than you are.
Thursday, September 02, 2010
a problem with churches today
I don't trust fat preachers. There's just something about representing yourself as a role model in Christianity while also being a walking billboard for gluttony that screams "Hypocrisy". I also don't trust extravagant or fancy churches. No matter how many paintings we have of Jesus in white robes with whispy blond hair, the fact remains that he was a wanderer in the desert who bathed in rivers when he came across them and gave all he had (including his life) to those in need. I cannot reconcile this with mega-churches or churches with indoor basketball courts and state of the art technology. Not only does it reek of pride, but it also diverts funds from charitable Jesus-like purposes to rather selfish ones. The Vatican is of course, the worst, but there are plenty of evangelical churches here in the US almost as bad.
There's a church here in town I just hate. hate with a passion! Electronic church bells that blare musak Christian rock, a gymnasium, a fat preacher, all of it. How many mosquito nets could that money have bought for malaria-ridden countries? How many AIDS medications could have been purchased and sent to Africa? How many hungry people could have been fed with that money? Jesus made bread and fishes for the masses; he didn't just feed his own little group fancier food.
I hate most churches, but I do hold a soft spot for the little one-room churches with old basement kitchens and no air conditioning. They somehow seem more sincere, a little less arrogant, more humble. They seem closer to God than the ones with plush carpet and padded pews and wide screen plasma TVs.
There's a church here in town I just hate. hate with a passion! Electronic church bells that blare musak Christian rock, a gymnasium, a fat preacher, all of it. How many mosquito nets could that money have bought for malaria-ridden countries? How many AIDS medications could have been purchased and sent to Africa? How many hungry people could have been fed with that money? Jesus made bread and fishes for the masses; he didn't just feed his own little group fancier food.
I hate most churches, but I do hold a soft spot for the little one-room churches with old basement kitchens and no air conditioning. They somehow seem more sincere, a little less arrogant, more humble. They seem closer to God than the ones with plush carpet and padded pews and wide screen plasma TVs.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Sometimes a Cigar is just a Cigar
My junior year in high school I wrote a story very much like Stephen King's Rage. It was basically a first person account of a Columbine-style massacre, told from the killer's viewpoint. Of course, this was pre-Columbine so the true horror of such a thing wasn't really all that clear. It was just the violent fantasy of a bullied kid. But I had a teacher who was fresh out of an entirely religious education process and she found the thing and went all ballistic about it. I ended up getting referred to a shrink about it. Actually, the school brought the damned shrink to me. So once a week for about a month I skipped gym class to go chat with this lady so she could, I assume, tell me not to blow away the varsity football team. I came to call her Louise The Incompetent.
I once read an article about a shrink in the 70s who, to discover if gender identity and sexual orientation were learned or born traits, performed sex changes on infants and then quizzed them yearly about their sexual fantasies and showed them porno movies. I think that guy mentored Louise The Incompetent in college. She just had a whole lot of really 70s ideas about things. Very sexualized and Freudian. She told me (after a month, mind you) that I had been molested as a child and repressed the memories and that I had some sort of Oedipal complex toward my father. Yeah, I don't think so. I ended up declining her invitation to pursue my therapy sessions, promised never to shoot anyone (a promise I have kept, by the way) and moved to a new school with a less offensive varsity football team.
Last time I saw Louise The Incompetent, she said hi and waved like we were old friends. I tried to be cordial, but it's so hard when you hate someone. I mean, who tells a messed up 16 year old kid that they want to fuck their dad? I also got a facebook friend request from her that put me in a pissy mood for a good week. I once asked a competent therapist about Louise's whole repressed memory molestation theory and found out that it was very freshman-year psych 101. My views of sex were at the time indicative of me being exposed to sex at an age where I was too young to understand it. About half the time, that results from being abused. But in the other half, it comes from finding porn. And I had a neighbor girl when I was little who loved to show off her mom's Penthouse collection. Yeah, so no molestation here, just good old fashioned porno. And Loise, well she's in real estate now. I guess she finally realized that she sucked at shrinking heads.
And Rage by Stephen King is still an awesome book.
I once read an article about a shrink in the 70s who, to discover if gender identity and sexual orientation were learned or born traits, performed sex changes on infants and then quizzed them yearly about their sexual fantasies and showed them porno movies. I think that guy mentored Louise The Incompetent in college. She just had a whole lot of really 70s ideas about things. Very sexualized and Freudian. She told me (after a month, mind you) that I had been molested as a child and repressed the memories and that I had some sort of Oedipal complex toward my father. Yeah, I don't think so. I ended up declining her invitation to pursue my therapy sessions, promised never to shoot anyone (a promise I have kept, by the way) and moved to a new school with a less offensive varsity football team.
Last time I saw Louise The Incompetent, she said hi and waved like we were old friends. I tried to be cordial, but it's so hard when you hate someone. I mean, who tells a messed up 16 year old kid that they want to fuck their dad? I also got a facebook friend request from her that put me in a pissy mood for a good week. I once asked a competent therapist about Louise's whole repressed memory molestation theory and found out that it was very freshman-year psych 101. My views of sex were at the time indicative of me being exposed to sex at an age where I was too young to understand it. About half the time, that results from being abused. But in the other half, it comes from finding porn. And I had a neighbor girl when I was little who loved to show off her mom's Penthouse collection. Yeah, so no molestation here, just good old fashioned porno. And Loise, well she's in real estate now. I guess she finally realized that she sucked at shrinking heads.
And Rage by Stephen King is still an awesome book.
Friday, August 27, 2010
I have it all
How on Earth did I get here? What did I ever do to deserve all of this? I have an amazing husband who I literally thank the universe for every day. I have 3 great kids who make me smile all the time. And I have my dream home, my dream life, my dream everything. I mean, I could use a new van, but still basically, a dream everything. I must have been Gandhi in a past life.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Things I'm learning (before I forget)
- Don't forget swaddling! At first I swaddled the baby all the time, but after a while I tapered off. Last night I broke out the Woombie again and Danny slept alone until 11:30.
- Woombies are awesome. They're expensive (I got mine at Mamabargains) but they're worth it. If you can't find one for a decent price, go with SwaddleMe blankets, but the Woombie is more inescapable.
- Don't sit down to nurse a baby without a spit rag. I seem to gravitate towards whichever couch the thing is NOT on, and then I get urped on and have nothing to clean up with.
- Take 5 minutes. Repeatedly. Take the time to brush your teeth and hair before rushing to the crying baby. Take the time to make your coffee (decaf- blech!) while the baby fusses in the swing. Chew your food even if the baby doesn't want you to. Don't take hours, but take 5 minutes sometimes.
- Do laundry. A lot. If I've done the laundry I feel like I'm not letting the house go, like I'm accomplishing something in the day, and it's one of the quickest chores I have. It takes 5 minutes to throw soap and clothes in the washer, and then another 5 minutes later to toss them in the dryer, and I can wait to fold them until Tom or Ryan gets home. Plus, I seem to get urped on a lot so I always have shirts that need to be washed.
- Gilligan & O'Malley nursing tanks are great. I only have one right now but I hope to get more and to wear them even through the winter, under flannel shirts and cardigans. It's so nice to be able to nurse without wrenching the collar of my button down shirt over to the side, or lifting up my t-shirt and flaunting my belly. Plus it's a really good tank top. Supportive bra in it, fitted but not skin-tight, long enough to not show midriff or muffin top. I may wear the thing even after I'm done nursing.
- If you're going to nurse laying down in bed, or co-sleep, put something under the baby. Danny's peed my sheets twice and crapped them once, too.
Autumnal dreams
Well, I had my baby, school has started for Ryan, and I'm ready for summer to be over. Or at least, for some cooler temperatures. I'd like to be able to take the boys for a walk, but not in 85` heat with 90% humidity. I'd like to wear Danny around in my new Moby wrap, but not when he just sweats and turns red where we meet. I like summer, but I love autumn, and I can't wait for red and gold leaves, pumpkins, apple cider, fires on the back patio, and Halloween. I got a sewing machine for my birthday this year so I'm definitely making at least one costume, hopefully two. I have no idea what I'll dress Danny as, but Tommy will probably want to be Diego.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Danny Boy
Danny was born almost 4 hours after my water broke (and 20 minutes after the doctor broke my water, because I make indestructible water that has to break twice) after ten whole minutes of pushing. And yeah, I got the epidural for that. hehehehIn the past 5 days, Danny has taught me much. I have learned that, contrary to manufacturer's instructions, you should NOT order your nursing bras by your third trimester measurements. The cup size is fine but the band is too big, resulting in supported but disturbingly wide set bosoms. I have learned that you can have 3 opposites. All of my kids look exactly opposite from one another. Bald and pink with blond peach fuzz. Darker complected with long brown hair. And finally pink and blond with long thick hair.
Sunday, August 01, 2010
I want another one
I would like to wear winter maternity clothes. I think it would be nice to have big baggy sweaters and hoodies that don't meet in the middle, and to not have to worry about whether or not the straps on my tank top will cover my bra. It would be nice to have the thick, shiny, pregnancy hair and be able to wear it down my back instead of up in a ponytail in a vain attempt to not sweat to death through the back of my neck.
Sure, GD during fudge and cookie season would suck, but not gaining five pounds in December would be kind of cool. As would being able to pick out a coming-home-from-the-hospital outfit for a baby that consists of more than just a onesie.
I still really want this baby out of me, but I still also wish I could get another one in there sometime too. Making people is cool (until the last week or so) and it sucks that my pancreas is my people-making enemy. Like kryptonite for Superman, if kryptonite only really affected his ability to eat candy bars unrestricted.
Sure, GD during fudge and cookie season would suck, but not gaining five pounds in December would be kind of cool. As would being able to pick out a coming-home-from-the-hospital outfit for a baby that consists of more than just a onesie.
I still really want this baby out of me, but I still also wish I could get another one in there sometime too. Making people is cool (until the last week or so) and it sucks that my pancreas is my people-making enemy. Like kryptonite for Superman, if kryptonite only really affected his ability to eat candy bars unrestricted.
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