Well actually 16th and Hoff. Two girls on my way home. Fresh out of college, upstate NY or Vermont. One girl had her pants rolled up and her calves were not shaved. They were standing outside a building where there was a two bedroom apartment for rent. Nothing about her screamed “crack addict” except for that she wasn’t wearing shoes. No shes at 16th and Hoff St. Where the hell did she think she was (probably on her college campus in rural New Hampshire)? I am surprised both the mom in me and the three fourths of a G&T I had “accidentally” ingested earlier didn’t throw the words to the front of my mouth: do you own shoes? Do you know what happens on this street? Puke, all manner of shit, broken glass? If you can afford shoes and you didn’t sell them for a hit of crack, then by all means wear them. Little girl you are in the big city now! I probably didn’t say anything because I didn’t know how to calmly say: Hey, are you from around here? Yeah, so um I am and this is probably the kind of street you are going to want to wear shoes on, it is pretty gross most of the time, just thought I would let you know. I am sure her mom wishes I had found those words.
The problem with being angry is that it just isn’t a lot of fun. It isn’t fun in my personal life. I would prefer that everyone just get along and that my afternoon not be ruined by feeling angry about the amount of childcare I do, or housework or cooking. Time is so short on the weekend I don’t want to spend it angry, but when I do get upset about those things where does the anger go when I am rushing to get past it in order to have fun? This week I have been thinking a lot about Egypt, coming as close as I come to praying for the people killed in the massacre and their loved ones. I wonder in a way if I do the same thing with international tragedies that I do with my own domestic problems. Do I just try to get past the heartbreak and the horror in order to go back to having fun? Does my rushing past it in both incidents merely show an intolerance for discomfort and not being in control?
(In honor of Breastfeeding Week and “I Support You”)
I have been thinking of how to write this story for months. I have gone back and forth trying to fit it into a linear box, but it is not linear, there is no clear beginning or end. It is multilayered and multifaceted, much like parenting.
There was the labor: 36 hours before she made her sweet arrival into this world followed by no sleep for mama in our nic-u-only-nursery, mother-unfriendly hospital.
There were the articles I researched and read after our breastfeeding/lactivist class that convinced me that the science pales relative to the claims.
There was my own history, breastfed till I was two.
There was my desire to breastfeed and my desire to not breastfeed.
There was the satisfaction I got from preparing her one bottle of formula before bed and adding her vitamin D drops.
There was her 13% weight loss in the first week of her life.
There was the pediatrician, the most clear and non-hyperbolic voice in all of the swirling noise: baby needs calories – mom needs rest -offer breast every three hours _not more often _ supplement 2 oz formula in between.
There was the less crazy lactation consultant.
There was the more crazy lactation consultant.
There was more crazy lactation consultant asking what I had done to stimulate my milk production so quickly. “I bought the Fenagreek and I am drinking THE tea.” I said, “And I am only offering the baby my breast every three hours and supplementing in between.”
There was her frown and dismissive response: “Oh, well it must be the Fenagreek that caused your milk to come in. We don’t recommend rest as a way to stimulate milk production.”
There was my inability to tell her: I-never-took-the-Fenagreek.
There was the feeling of rejection that came in the early weeks when baby would scream in the afternoon every time I would offer her my breast.
There was the calm at night when I would offer her my breast and she would eat happily and go back to sleep.
There was the pump.
There was exclusive nursing for our month in Europe.
There was my satisfaction with being able to “do it”.
There was the simplicity of the food: always with you, always ready.
There was the feeling of wanting to take the baby off my breast as soon as possible every time she ate. To have it be done.
There was the guilt I felt when I was sure I had ended the feeding earlier than the baby was ready because I couldn’t stand it one more second.
There was the sticker shock at the grocery store after she was weaned.
There was the amazement with my breasts, that they could produce this food on such a tight schedule, the filling, the tingling, the stickiness, the let down.
There was the decision at six months to wean the baby, though we had established a solid breastfeeding relationship.
There were my mixed feelings about weaning.
There were the wonderful Swedes who despite high breastfeeding rates few of them nurse much past 6 – 9 months.
There was my desire to stand with women who choose formula and parents who must use formula. I chose to read the studies. I chose not to feel guilt, because there was nothing to feel guilty about, other than how my predominantly white, educated, privileged cohort managed to co-opt the discourse on infant feeding by exploiting studies from impoverished 3rd world infrastructures, glossing over real conditions of poverty, (such as lack of clean water and unreliable access to refrigeration and healthcare) and repackaged these studies as showing both alarming health risks associated with formula feeding, and a “norm” of lengthy breastfeeding, as though we are all one big happy world of mothers and babies, all living in together in the same cultural traditions and socioeconomic conditions.
Lastly there was this; breastfeeding and formula feeding were expensive in different ways. Lucky me that I had the time to breastfeed and the money for formula. Babies cost no matter how you feed them. It is the smiles, laughter and snuggles we get in return, that are the true purchase.