Mama milk

Things may be falling apart, breastfeeding-wise. Actually, using the word 'breastfeeding' is kind of misleading, given that Mira and Ian generally each get fed directly from the source no more than twice a day, more often once each. Despite not getting a lot of, um, face time with my breasts, the babies are getting a lot of what we refer to as mama milk. As much as I hated pumping when Ada was a baby, I now find it in some ways better than actually breastfeeding directly. When pumping I can generally get out enough milk to feed both twins for one feeding. If I nurse I can feed one of them, and then sometimes that one finishes nursing and still wants more milk. When they were first born they were too small and tired to efficiently get the milk out, so we used bottles a lot. I think this made them lazy where drinking is concerned. Getting the milk out of me is a lot more work for them than getting it out of the bottle, and neither of them is consistently willing to take on that challenge even now.

At the end of this week the twins will be 11 weeks old - almost 3 months. As they sleep less it is harder to find time to pump. Last week I saw my likely future, in which I am alone with the twins during the day and can not pump without all hell breaking loose. Chris had gone in to work and Ian and Mira were both fed when I realized I really needed to pump. I put them both in seats (okay, car seats, as we were camping out at Ellen's house during the heat wave) and set up the pump on the floor. While rocking both car seats (with my feet) I pumped to the sound of the babies wailing. I was so traumatized that I had to take the babies to Target for the air conditioning and in-house Starbucks. Yes, it is kind of funny, if it isn't happening to you. In retrospect, it is even a little funny to me, but only a little because I know I will be living this again soon when Chris goes back to work.

This week I was able to successfully pump with Mira lying near me on the floor gurgling instead of crying. Hopefully I can do this with both kids if I can work out some kind of decent schedule. If I can't, the babies' days of mama milk are going to come to a quick end. Today was the first day that we ran out of milk before the end of the day. I knew this might happen, but at 2 pm when I made the decision to nap instead of pump, it felt like a good choice. At 10 pm it still feels like the right choice.

I actually have a bunch of frozen milk in the fridge, from last month when the milk was flowing freely and I was making more than Ian and Mira could drink. I am not sure why, but I seem to be getting a bit less from pumping these days. This may be just a normal slowdown that happens with longer-term pumping instead of breastfeeding, or it may be a byproduct of me pumping fewer times a day. The latter is likely, since I balance pumping with a desire to leave the house once in a while. We can bust out the frozen milk, but that takes a little prior planning. When one of the babies is hungry and screaming, it is quicker and thus better to mix formula than to defrost frozen milk.

In any case, I am sad about not being able to feed the babies mostly breastmilk, not out of a feeling that it is better (though all things being equal I think it is) but because formula is expensive. Wow, even at Costco prices, it pains me to shell out for something we can get (mostly) for free. (if you don't count the extra I eat to keep things going) And that's another thing - with pumping and nursing I can eat whatever I want, whenever I want. Enormous, greasy sandwiches, handfuls of trail mix at 3 am, nectarines and chocolate bars gobbled or savored. Feeding twins takes a lot of calories, and as someone who loves to eat this is an unexpected side bonus to breastfeeding.

We'll see what happens. For now I still have milk for the babies, and I hope I can continue feeding it to them at least until I go back to work at 6 months. After that who knows whether pumping will get easier or harder once I am away from Ian and Mira a bit more. I am not even sure if my milk will hold out that long. This whole twin thing is an ongoing lesson in giving up control, so why should this be any different?

Long in the Nipple

Today at breakfast Ada said: Your nipples are quite large. It makes you look old.

I'd heard of "long in the tooth" but "long in the nipple" could be my new euphemism of choice.

part of what is aging me

Belly's Lament

Categories of clothes now in my possession:

• Regular (non-maternity) clothes, which except for underwear, socks and one sweater, are unwearable.  

• Maternity clothes, type 1: clothes that never fit me, despite being labeled "maternity" by devious retailers or loaned by friends with significantly shorter torsos and/or smaller pregnancy bellies. This includes any tops sold by Gap Maternity, which by the time I needed a maternity shirt to cover the belly, were already too short to perform this duty. This category also includes several pairs of maternity pants that are too big in the hips and fall down the moment I move around at all. I look like a teen-aged boy, circa 2000. This slippage is exacerbated by the prevalence of under-the-belly waistbands. I was fooled by this style during my first pregnancy, but realized (after walking all around Madrid with at least one hand in my pocket in order to keep my jeans up) that the less fashion-forward over-the-belly waistbands work a lot better for me.  Also, though my belly is size large, my hips remain medium.

• Maternity clothes, type 2: clothes that fit me for a while, and are now too small. A couple pairs of pants I borrowed from friends have been set aside as the waistband no longer stretches over my lower belly enough to simultaneously keep the pants up and not make me feel I am being hugged by a vice grip. (see: complaints about under-the-belly waistbands above) Other pants that worked well for a while are now pinching my lower belly, making sitting uncomfortable. Also, at least one shirt that I'd happily worn the past couple of months was put away, after a recent mid-day walk to the grocery store ended with my neighbor glancing at my lower belly (a region I can feel but not see these days) and asking if I minded the breeze. 

• Maternity clothes, type 3: seasonally inappropriate clothes. Just because they don't really fit the weather, I am still wearing them. Because they sort of fit. 

• Maternity clothes, type 4: perfect. I have a few pieces of clothes that fit and look decent, and I wear them all the time. This includes the black and white polka dot dress I wore all through my first pregnancy, a gray cashmere wrap sweater from my mom, and some maternity yoga pants I am too vain to wear outside except to yoga. Strangely, I am not too vain to wear droopy jeans, so go figure. By the time I can fit back in normal clothes, I will be ready to burn these precious pieces.
  

I am the medium one

Ada and I were drawing lions. Reaching over to my paper, Ada adds some circles to my lion's face.  "I made cheeks for your lion," she says.

"Nice cheeks," I reply.

Drawing more, she adds, "and eyebrows."

"Oh, those are big eyebrows. Those are Bert eyebrows"

"Why?"

"Well, they are like Bert's. Bert has big eyebrows."

"Do you have big eyebrows?"

"Well, not that big. Papa has bigger eyebrows. But his face is bigger too."

"You have medium eyebrows. And a medium bottom."

Open Letter to My Body

Dear Body,

I know we haven't been on the best terms lately. I am big enough to admit that this is mostly my fault, though I hope you'll see your part in this whole thing. Yes, over the past few months, I have not been as gentle as you'd have liked. In what you might call a selfish attempt to get pregnant, I jabbed you with needles and swelled our ovaries with all those hormones. And yeah, you bore the brunt when the doctor took out those eggs and three days later put them back. Your distaste at the hormone injections was clear; the cramping and sharp stabbing gas made that pretty evident. The lumps in the buttocks were a nice touch, a subtle reminder that progesterone shots might not be your favorite part of our daily routine.

I have tried to make amends. The walks, the chocolate, the naps. I had hoped those would make up, at least a little, for what I have put you through. I hoped you would see that we were in this together, and help those embryos take hold inside you. I don't hold it against you that there was no pregnancy. I know no one has to do anything "wrong" for IVF to fail.

The thing is, I am coming to you to ask for help. I am trying again. No, I am not looking forward to the hormones and the stress, but I do want to get pregnant. You did such a good job with the pregnancy last time, I was hoping that you'd be willing to try it again. Just once more. I know it will be hard on you, what with the uterus stretching and increased pressure on the knees. But the labor was short last time, I gave you that, right? Help me with this and I promise not to complain about my hips shifting, or breasts growing then shrinking, or the waddle in my walk that I may never get over. I'll keep you moisturized, and maybe even get a manicure once in a while. What do you say?

Here's to a productive partnership,

Nora


This letter was inspired by Blogher's "A Letter to My Body" series.

Don't Shoot

When the number of visitors to my nonlinear home started to drop this summer, I was not concerned. I remember this from last year. People are busy in the summer, and it seems right that they would not be spending their time here when they could be out with friends and family, enjoying back yards, porches and sunny parks.

But a few weeks ago my visitor count spiked. I was suddenly getting a third to half again as many visitors as I normally do. At first I was really confused - why were people googling a particular phrase and ending up here? (I'd tell you the phrase, but that will just encourage google to keep me high on the first page of this particular query. The phrase in question happens to be the title of a recent post.) Little did I know that my title hit a hot google search phrase. And by "hot," I mean pictures of women in states of undress, sexily hamming for the camera.

So yeah, for the past few weeks hundreds of men around the world (ah, the global p-rn viewership) are popping by my site, only to find a complete lack of nakedness, and quickly clicking away. And although I am happy for people to stop by, I am pretty committed to NOT taking my shirt off on the blog.

So, to all the wayward googlers: Go Away. What you want is the FIRST site on the page of links. Not me. Nothing to see here.

I'm sure that in another few weeks my post will be old enough that I will slide down the rankings enough to be moved off the first page. For now, I can live with the higher than normal number of visitors recorded by sitemeter as staying for 0:00.

Toeing the line

For those who have been paying attention, the great and powerful Jiro mentioned that my blog would benefit from an increased Jiro-focus. I took his comment as an opportunity to get him to offer my readers the value of his years (and years, and years) of life experience. I asked people to submit their burning questions, and one complied. Ok, two, but Jiro has declined to respond to Betsy Veal's comments ever since she scaled the wall of his compound to leave her famous ketchup souffle at his door. So that leaves one answerable question. (Seriously, what is wrong with you people? Have you no questions that need answering?)

But never mind, a question comes to us from the temperate north:

Why is my big toe more sensitive to heat than other parts of my body?

The Sage Jiro responds.

One of the more obscure beliefs of Scientology is that the galactic overlord Xenu having stubbed his toe one time too many on the galactic overlord baby’s toy train set declared that henceforth all of the evil spirits would enter through the toes, and that everyone’s first toe would “… swell larger than all of the others …” and become more sensitive to all things. This was around the same time there were several decrees about the galactic overlord poopy diapers and the galactic overlord's complaint that “I should have gotten a puppy”.

On the other hand, of course everyone knows about the belief in Swedish mysticism that the first lutefisk sprang from Odin’s big toe.

Should anyone need advice, Jiro doesn't have much to do these days. His job is a piece of cake, his child is pretty much willing to do whatever he says, and his wife, well, she's not a candidate for Stepford yet, but we're working on her. Email the advice line at nonlinear . advice @ gmail . com - what could it hurt?

Ceci n'est pas une pipe

I usually shower before Chris leaves for work. Recently, Chris has had several early morning appointments and has had to leave at an unreasonable hour. This has left me with Ada and a need to wash my hair.

Ada is much better than she used to be about me showering on her watch (she used to cry the moment I stepped behind the shower curtain), but I still have to talk to her about what I am doing. "Look, I'm soaping my face! And now I'm rinsing the soap off."

After the shower, I got out to dry off. Ada has seen me without clothes before, and I am not concerned about her seeing me naked. (Well, except for her comments on my less than firm belly.) But today Ada regarded me with a new eye, and pointing at my pubic hair declared: "mustache". "Mustache?" I asked. Nodding, she emphatically repeated "Mustache!"

I immediately thought of this Magritte painting.

Random quote and unrelated photo of the week (Susie Edition)

photo by my pal Susie

So now every time I see the ugly doll that Ada likes, I think of new my puss lyrics. Like this one:

My puss teach Harvard classes
Your puss emit greenhouse gasses

-Susie

Hoo Ha?

Because I know you just can't get enough crotch talk, I saw this recently about referring to the Vagina Monologues by another name.

I actually turned down an invite to see the Vagina Monologues (or should we be saying Vulva Monologues, as was suggested by a commentor on my last female genetalia post?). I've heard mixed things about the show, but would have gone if it had not conflicted with plans to take Chris to hear Neko Case and Merle Haggard play this weekend. Yes, for my husband's birthday we went to a Hag concert. We are old and dorky. Actually, we went for Neko, who if you don't know about, you should. Chris and I have both had a little crush on her for a few years. Plus, she's on the list of people he's allowed to sleep with if given the chance. Heck, she might be on my list too.