I've written some pieces that seem appropriate for the reading. There are two in particular that could be good. One has a little more meat, a little more turmoil-- but would require that I come out about my mental status to my local RL community (which gives me some qualms.) The other, well-- I guess I'd call it atmospheric. It's just a little moment from very early in my mothering. There's no real plot or conflict. I like it, and I think a lot of local parents could identify with it, but I worry there's no there, there. And a bit that I'm chickening out of posting something more worthy (maybe) because of what it says about me.
So, I'm asking you for some perspective.
Here are the two pieces I'm considering:
Toxic Boobs
Breast is best.
...the perfect food for your baby...
...designed by nature to meet your child's nutritional needs...
...costs nothing...
...no need to prepare, nothing to pack...
...ready to feed whenever and wherever your baby needs it...
...reduced risks of gastrointestinal distress, diarrhea, obesity later in life...
...bonding...
...breast-fed babies have higher IQs...
...immunological benefits...
...healthy bacteria... gut flora...
...breastfed babies get sick less often...
...no formula can compare with the benefits of breastmilk...
Why wouldn't you breastfeed?
Don't you want what's best for your baby?
Don't you love your son?
It's coming. I can sense it already.
Yes, damn it. Yes, I want what's best for my baby.
Yes, I want to keep him healthy.
Yes, I want to breastfeed my son.
I bought the LilyPadz,
the nipple cream, the nursing bras.
I've been watching how-to videos online.
I've been practicing the cradle grip, the football hold.
I've been reading about foremilk and hindmilk and clogged ducts and how to treat nipple tears and how to recognize mastitis. I've learned about pumping, and fenugreek tea, and how to diagnose and remedy supply issues.
I've taken comfort from the accounts of other new mothers, who overcame painful learning curves to become breastfeeding champs.
I've looked up my local lactation support groups.
And it doesn't matter.
Because I won't be breastfeeding.
And no, there's nothing wrong with my boobs. At least, not so far as I know. No inverted nipples. I've never had a breast reduction. The equipment is in good shape and ready to use.
It's my brain.
But haven't you heard? You can take many anti-depressants while breastfeeding. What about Zoloft? My friend had post-partum depression, and she was on meds, and she nursed just fine...
That's wonderful. I realize I may read sarcastic writing this, but I mean it. I'm glad that there are so few medicines that actually contraindicate breastfeeding.
But I don't take antidepressants. In fact, antidepressants are likely to make me quite sick-- setting off rapid mood cycles or mania.
Yes, this is what I'd like to be talking about with neighborhood moms giving me the stink-eye in the baby aisle. My mental illness. Nope, not the baby blues kind, or even the how-could-Tom-Cruise-be-so-evil-to-Brooke-Shields kind. The going to the hospital for electro-convulsive therapy kind.
I think that'll make me really popular at the Mommy and me classes, don't you?
I wonder if I'd feel better about this if I weren't feeling so damn normal. I feel healthy. Content. I'm excited about becoming a mom. I'm sleeping well, eating well, getting everything in order for the boy-o's impending arrival.
And I've been feeling this way for months. Just... happy. Engaged with life, and happy.
But as it turns out, the lady hormones that send other pregnant people through the emotional wringer are actually serving me in good stead these days.
Unfortunately, once I give birth, those hormone levels are going to plummet. The graph my psych team showed me earlier this week bore a remarkable resemblance to a herd of lemmings rushing off a cliff.
So even though I'm not on meds currently, and I feel fine, once I give birth I have a forty to seventy percent chance of getting very sick.
I could get PPD. Which would be bad enough-- as many of you, unfortunately, know. But I could also get delirium-- a charmingly changeable condition where one moment I seem fine, and the next moment I don't know what day it is. Or I could become manic.
Fun fact: Do you know one of the most likely triggers of a manic episode is sleep deprivation? Not that waking up every two to three hours to breast-feed a baby might lead to sleep deprivation.
Another fun fact: Did you know that a manic episode can suddenly precipitate post-partum psychosis?
What an ugly word that is. Psychosis. Applying that word to myself makes me feel... worse than unclean.
I'm sure you've all heard about post-partum psychosis. It tends to get a lot of news coverage when it happens. Like when that woman drove her family into a lake, because she thought they'd be better off.
Can you imagine what it would feel like, to know you have even a small potential to be like that woman?
I hope not.
The good news is, I can take a medication that has years of evidence proving its prophylactic powers against such momentous ills. Hooray for science!
I've even taken this medication before, and know that it works for me.
But it is very present in breastmilk.
Even so, my medical team did not out-and-out forbid me to breastfeed. I could. I'd have to get regular blood tests for myself and my son. Why not? No reason not to subject a newborn to having vials of blood drawn from him on a regular basis.
Of course, he will be quite small. Which means a little dehydration from a cold or something similar could lead to him suddenly having toxic levels in his blood. Which could lead to thyroid damage, or kidney failure, or neurological developmental delays. Or...
Or I could just feed him formula. Okay? Maybe we'll just do that. And then J can take over a night feeding or two, so I won't get too run down, and we don't have to worry about the rest of this bullshit.
Not that I said anything like this in my meeting with my doctors.
"Based on what you're saying, it sounds like I'd be foolish to breastfeed."
"We wouldn't say that. But choosing not to breastfeed will pose the fewest risks to you and your child."
The doctors were very sympathetic, very kind.
They smiled when J slipped his hand into mine, gave it a squeeze.
I didn't cry. Not then, anyway. I'd gotten most of that out of my system, reading the studies they'd printed out for me, earlier in the week.
J leaned over to me and said, "Don't forget, this nation won two World Wars with a formula-fed citizenry."
I laughed a little. Oh, how I love that man.
"We're raising our own Greatest Generation, huh?"
"That's right."
...the perfect food for your baby...
...designed by nature to meet your child's nutritional needs...
...costs nothing...
...no need to prepare, nothing to pack...
...ready to feed whenever and wherever your baby needs it...
...reduced risks of gastrointestinal distress, diarrhea, obesity later in life...
...bonding...
...breast-fed babies have higher IQs...
...immunological benefits...
...healthy bacteria... gut flora...
...breastfed babies get sick less often...
...no formula can compare with the benefits of breastmilk...
Why wouldn't you breastfeed?
Don't you want what's best for your baby?
Don't you love your son?
It's coming. I can sense it already.
Yes, damn it. Yes, I want what's best for my baby.
Yes, I want to keep him healthy.
Yes, I want to breastfeed my son.
I bought the LilyPadz,
the nipple cream, the nursing bras.
I've been watching how-to videos online.
I've been practicing the cradle grip, the football hold.
I've been reading about foremilk and hindmilk and clogged ducts and how to treat nipple tears and how to recognize mastitis. I've learned about pumping, and fenugreek tea, and how to diagnose and remedy supply issues.
I've taken comfort from the accounts of other new mothers, who overcame painful learning curves to become breastfeeding champs.
I've looked up my local lactation support groups.
And it doesn't matter.
Because I won't be breastfeeding.
And no, there's nothing wrong with my boobs. At least, not so far as I know. No inverted nipples. I've never had a breast reduction. The equipment is in good shape and ready to use.
It's my brain.
But haven't you heard? You can take many anti-depressants while breastfeeding. What about Zoloft? My friend had post-partum depression, and she was on meds, and she nursed just fine...
That's wonderful. I realize I may read sarcastic writing this, but I mean it. I'm glad that there are so few medicines that actually contraindicate breastfeeding.
But I don't take antidepressants. In fact, antidepressants are likely to make me quite sick-- setting off rapid mood cycles or mania.
Yes, this is what I'd like to be talking about with neighborhood moms giving me the stink-eye in the baby aisle. My mental illness. Nope, not the baby blues kind, or even the how-could-Tom-Cruise-be-so-evil-to-Brooke-Shields kind. The going to the hospital for electro-convulsive therapy kind.
I think that'll make me really popular at the Mommy and me classes, don't you?
I wonder if I'd feel better about this if I weren't feeling so damn normal. I feel healthy. Content. I'm excited about becoming a mom. I'm sleeping well, eating well, getting everything in order for the boy-o's impending arrival.
And I've been feeling this way for months. Just... happy. Engaged with life, and happy.
But as it turns out, the lady hormones that send other pregnant people through the emotional wringer are actually serving me in good stead these days.
Unfortunately, once I give birth, those hormone levels are going to plummet. The graph my psych team showed me earlier this week bore a remarkable resemblance to a herd of lemmings rushing off a cliff.
So even though I'm not on meds currently, and I feel fine, once I give birth I have a forty to seventy percent chance of getting very sick.
I could get PPD. Which would be bad enough-- as many of you, unfortunately, know. But I could also get delirium-- a charmingly changeable condition where one moment I seem fine, and the next moment I don't know what day it is. Or I could become manic.
Fun fact: Do you know one of the most likely triggers of a manic episode is sleep deprivation? Not that waking up every two to three hours to breast-feed a baby might lead to sleep deprivation.
Another fun fact: Did you know that a manic episode can suddenly precipitate post-partum psychosis?
What an ugly word that is. Psychosis. Applying that word to myself makes me feel... worse than unclean.
I'm sure you've all heard about post-partum psychosis. It tends to get a lot of news coverage when it happens. Like when that woman drove her family into a lake, because she thought they'd be better off.
Can you imagine what it would feel like, to know you have even a small potential to be like that woman?
I hope not.
The good news is, I can take a medication that has years of evidence proving its prophylactic powers against such momentous ills. Hooray for science!
I've even taken this medication before, and know that it works for me.
But it is very present in breastmilk.
Even so, my medical team did not out-and-out forbid me to breastfeed. I could. I'd have to get regular blood tests for myself and my son. Why not? No reason not to subject a newborn to having vials of blood drawn from him on a regular basis.
Of course, he will be quite small. Which means a little dehydration from a cold or something similar could lead to him suddenly having toxic levels in his blood. Which could lead to thyroid damage, or kidney failure, or neurological developmental delays. Or...
Or I could just feed him formula. Okay? Maybe we'll just do that. And then J can take over a night feeding or two, so I won't get too run down, and we don't have to worry about the rest of this bullshit.
Not that I said anything like this in my meeting with my doctors.
"Based on what you're saying, it sounds like I'd be foolish to breastfeed."
"We wouldn't say that. But choosing not to breastfeed will pose the fewest risks to you and your child."
The doctors were very sympathetic, very kind.
They smiled when J slipped his hand into mine, gave it a squeeze.
I didn't cry. Not then, anyway. I'd gotten most of that out of my system, reading the studies they'd printed out for me, earlier in the week.
J leaned over to me and said, "Don't forget, this nation won two World Wars with a formula-fed citizenry."
I laughed a little. Oh, how I love that man.
"We're raising our own Greatest Generation, huh?"
"That's right."
Momentary Deluge
"Come on kids, we've got to get home.
It's going to rain!"
The nannies at the playground
were gathering up the little ones.
I looked up. The sky was grey. There was a breeze stirring. But the old man with the guitar didn't seem to be bothered. Neither did the crowd of biddies on the bench to the other side of him.
"Do you want to go yet, Sprog? 'Cuz I don't.
We have an umbrella. I'm thinking we're okay."
The Sprog voiced no objection. I snuggled him into his blanket, and gave him a bottle.
Then lightning-- bold and surprisingly bright in the grey glow overhead-- flashed across the open sky, accompanied almost immediately by a ground-trembling crack of thunder.
The Sprog looked very concerned.
"Okay honey, mama called that one wrong. That's our cue. Let's go." I kept a constant patter going as I bundled him back into the carrier and gathered up our stuf.
"Time to go. Time to go," said the old man with the guitar, as he and the biddies filed out the entrance behind me.
"Do you need help?" one of the old ladies asked.
"No, I think I've got it." The Sprog and I headed across the park, towards the back route home. The air smelled like ozone. My hair tingled.
Then the rain started. By the time I got my umbrella open, those opening drips had become a torrent.
"Mama really mis-judged this one. Sorry honey!"
My flip-flops were starting to get slippery. I spotted some scaffolding up ahead-- ducked under and took shelter.
An elderly couple joined me. Then a middle-aged black woman. We huddled together and made small talk while we watched veils of water race down the street
The lightning and thunder were right overhead. My heart fluttered. The Sprog, nestled against my chest, hunkered down in his carrier at each bellow of the weather. I thought about how, if I didn't have the baby with me, I might have raced through the storm just for the joy of feeling alive.
The old couple decided to make a break for it. I wanted to tell them to wait a few more minutes-- rain this hard usually didn't last long. But they were gone.
"How old is your baby?" the woman next to me asked.
"Just over a month."
"Boy or girl?"
"He's a boy."
"He's still very new, then."
"Yes. Actually, I think this might have been his first thunderstorm."
"Oh!"
"Although he has lived through a hurricane, and an earthquake."
"That's right! An auspicious beginning, then."
"I guess! A tumultuous one, anyway."
The rain was letting up. We made our farewells, and continued on to our respective destinations.
As the Sprog and I made our way down the hill, we passed a group of teenage boys, soaked to the skin, hooting and hollering.
That might be you one day, little man.
The thought made me smile. I kissed him on the head, and strolled towards home.
It's going to rain!"
The nannies at the playground
were gathering up the little ones.
I looked up. The sky was grey. There was a breeze stirring. But the old man with the guitar didn't seem to be bothered. Neither did the crowd of biddies on the bench to the other side of him.
"Do you want to go yet, Sprog? 'Cuz I don't.
We have an umbrella. I'm thinking we're okay."
The Sprog voiced no objection. I snuggled him into his blanket, and gave him a bottle.
Then lightning-- bold and surprisingly bright in the grey glow overhead-- flashed across the open sky, accompanied almost immediately by a ground-trembling crack of thunder.
The Sprog looked very concerned.
"Okay honey, mama called that one wrong. That's our cue. Let's go." I kept a constant patter going as I bundled him back into the carrier and gathered up our stuf.
"Time to go. Time to go," said the old man with the guitar, as he and the biddies filed out the entrance behind me.
"Do you need help?" one of the old ladies asked.
"No, I think I've got it." The Sprog and I headed across the park, towards the back route home. The air smelled like ozone. My hair tingled.
Then the rain started. By the time I got my umbrella open, those opening drips had become a torrent.
"Mama really mis-judged this one. Sorry honey!"
My flip-flops were starting to get slippery. I spotted some scaffolding up ahead-- ducked under and took shelter.
An elderly couple joined me. Then a middle-aged black woman. We huddled together and made small talk while we watched veils of water race down the street
The lightning and thunder were right overhead. My heart fluttered. The Sprog, nestled against my chest, hunkered down in his carrier at each bellow of the weather. I thought about how, if I didn't have the baby with me, I might have raced through the storm just for the joy of feeling alive.
The old couple decided to make a break for it. I wanted to tell them to wait a few more minutes-- rain this hard usually didn't last long. But they were gone.
"How old is your baby?" the woman next to me asked.
"Just over a month."
"Boy or girl?"
"He's a boy."
"He's still very new, then."
"Yes. Actually, I think this might have been his first thunderstorm."
"Oh!"
"Although he has lived through a hurricane, and an earthquake."
"That's right! An auspicious beginning, then."
"I guess! A tumultuous one, anyway."
The rain was letting up. We made our farewells, and continued on to our respective destinations.
As the Sprog and I made our way down the hill, we passed a group of teenage boys, soaked to the skin, hooting and hollering.
That might be you one day, little man.
The thought made me smile. I kissed him on the head, and strolled towards home.
I'd really appreciate some input.
Not a safe place to be
(in that order)
