Mama Nuggle

Just wanted to take a few moments to reflect on the amazing journey my precious princess Caitlin Arielle has made over the past 11 weeks:

Just born

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the NICU

 

 

 

 

 

 

Meeting her brother Ty for the first time 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Today, healthy and thriving:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I love you, baby Caitlin!

This post is not meant to be a commentary on breast vs. bottle feeding; however, I feel it is important that I touch on this topic first so you understand the legend behind the ”magic boobies.”

I am not one of those women who always felt strongly about wanting to breast feed my babies. In fact, I probably would have decided to not breast feed, had both of my babies not spent time in the NICU after birth. Yes, I have heard all the blah blah blah about why breast feeding is better, more nutritious, cost effective, healthier, etc. My initial instinct to chose formula was not for aesthetic reasons or vanity; rather, it was because I planned on returning to work after my leave was up, and did not want to be chained to a breast pump. I also wanted Jeremy to be actively involved (read: an unwitting volunteer) during those pesky nighttime feedings. Formula feeding seemed to be the best option to meet both objectives.

So, I decided to give breastfeeding a whirl after having Ty, mainly because the hospital staff strongly encouraged it as a away to ensure proper nourishment and bonding time with my son.

It wasn’t really that hard. Ty latched on like a champ. He ate like a Survivor contestant after returning back home.  We were constantly upping the amount he took each feeding. He was downing more than 6 oz. each time by 2 months.  Ty was insatiable, and it’s no wonder why we call him ‘Ty the Tank’.

There is an expression in crab fishing - thank you, Deadliest Catch, for enlightening me - to describe when a boat has hit the mother lode of Alaskan crab. It means that the string of pots is producing high numbers of “keepers” - crabs that are legal to catch. That expression is known as “on the crab.”

Well, we began to refer to nursing as “on the crab” due to Ty’s frantic energy and excitement at clamping on to the booby. It reminded me of a heat seeking missile locking onto its target. But I digress…

So we began to alternate every other feeding with formula. This would also help me avoid having to pump every few hours after returning to work. It seemed to be working out well for all of us. But then, we began to notice something unusual after formula feedings: Ty was harder to settle down. He wasn’t quite as toasty warm. He wasn’t as drowsy. He wasn’t as snuggly. He wasn’t as calm. He didn’t sleep as well. He was crankier. He exhibited preference for being “on the crab” rather than gobbling from a Playtex bottle. Or, at least it seemed that way to us.

Still, we persevered.

When I went back to work, I still had to tote along the pump. The best laid plans, eh? (I can’t tell you how many times I’d escape to my car to pump before my boobies exploded. Nope, I won’t mention the number of times they leaked. Through the pads. All over my blouse. And I certainly won’t tell you about the time I went away on business for a week to California and my pump broke the first day and my former boss would not let anyone take me to Target or Wal-Mart to buy one. And I won’t tell you how difficult it was to “manually express” myself. And I won’t tell you that I have a whole new respect for cows, or that I haven’t drank milk since. And I won’t tell you that halfway through the trip, one of my former colleagues, a gay Hispanic man from San Francisco, was so pissed off about my ex-boss not letting me go and felt so bad for my miserable ass that he drove to the store and bought me a breast pump. Without me having to ask. I won’t tell you that there were MANY days I’d call Jeremy on my way home from work and say, “Don’t you dare feed that kid before I walk in the door. The boobies need him, stat!”)

I will, however, tell you that after I returned to work, my boobies became the stuff of legends in our house.

I will tell you that our initial observations seemed to be correct - Ty definitely was a happier baby when I nursed. And thus, the legend of the “magic boobies” was born.

During the next few months, Ty became - as all babies do - a little more challenging to care for. Some days, he was an absolute angel for daddy. But, there were also some days that nothing would make Ty happy. Not swaddling. Not swaying. Not shushing. Nope, Ty was having none of it. Except, for the magic boobies. They, it seemed, always did the trick.

Unfortunately, I only had one set of magic boobies, and they were at work. With me. And unlike the ”Ferber method” shown in Meet the Parents, daddy does not have magic boobies. And some days, I suspect he wished he did.

On days like that, instead of me calling Jeremy to bitch about my painfully engorged breasts, he was now calling me to say “How soon ’til you and the magic boobies get home?” I took comfort knowing that both my guys were eagerly awaiting my return as much as the boobies were looking forward to seeing Ty. I felt better that I had a magic trick up my sleeve (or in my shirt, as the case may be) that would ease away the frustration and crankiness we all felt.

With time, Ty became less “attached” as it were to the magic boobies. We replaced his bottles with Soothie brand ones, which he still loves to this day. I began to slowly start to wean him, and completed the task right around the time he cut his first teeth. (I love my son, but no way was I going to  attempt to nurse an angry, hungry child with teeth! I am not THAT freaking crazy!)

In just over two years, Ty has developed into a strong, healthy, well-adjusted child. His formula was replaced by whole milk, and ultimately downgraded to 2%. He guzzles it by the gallon.

And yes, with the arrival of Caitlin, I have resumed the alternation of breast and bottle feeding. Ty has renewed his obsession with my magic boobies… he now is fascinated by watching me feed Caitlin. When she cries, Ty asks Caitlin “Whassamatta, baby Caitwin? U hunwgry?” Ty then reassures her by saying,”Its awwight, don’t cwy baby Caitwin! Mama dwink? Mama baby Caitwin hungwy. She want boobies. Mama boobies?” And I, in turn, proffer the boobies. Which makes EVERYONE happy.

I “get” Ty’s interest in watching Caitlin eat.

However, I am ever so slightly more concerned by his two newest odd - but typically male - fascinations.  Like any true male, Ty loves all things electronic. And yes, that includes my electronic hospital-grade breast pump, complete with its adjustable speed and suction dials. He loves to help me by grabbing the pump and saying “mama make milk? boobies?”

And, as if I can’t figure it out by myself,  Ty “helps” me with the pumping process -  by lifting up my shirt and pulling those magic boobies out. He is enthralled by breasts, no matter who they belong to. (shocker, right?) Ty even pulls up his own shirt, and says “Mama, whassat? Booby?” as he touches his own tiny nipples. And, if that is not weird enough, I’ll leave you with this picture, taken by my cell phone camera, as Ty attempts to combine his love of the breast pump and love of boobies - by making his own milk:

How’s THAT for your laugh of the day?

Editor’s note:This is a continuation of the series “the Laws of Parenting.‘”

As I mentioned before, I have learned countless things that I did not know before becoming a parent.

If you missed the first three principles of this law that I proposed in Part 1, please click here to get caught up! For those of you joining me again, thank you! Now, on with the discussion and debate:

Principle #4: Upon entering any restaurant that does not have a “ball crawl,” one or more children will immediately begin to display behavior not fit for public viewing.

It does not matter how much you have attempted to prepare for what was supposed to be a pleasant meal cooked by someone other than you or an immediate family member. It does not matter what kind of food and drink you have stashed inside the diaper bag as a preemptive strive to stave off hunger and starvation. It won’t matter which toys you have stuffed into that diaper bag (or your purse, or the stroller, or the car seat.) Nope, you may as well have just left all that extra crap at home.

Because, you see, your child will immediately WANT NONE OF WHATEVER YOU BROUGHT INTO SAID RESTAURANT in the hopes of entertaining them.

They WILL, however, want to stand on the benches in the waiting area. They WILL attempt to pull or push open the doors of said restaurant. They will throw themselves - head first - onto the deeply soiled and stained, absolutely FILTHY all-weather mat by the front door, begin SCREAMING BLOODY MURDER and loudly shriek phrases of total gibberish. Phrases which are uttered at a decibel understood only by dogs and dolphins.

But don’t worry about what is being said by your child. Oh no. For the words themselves don’t really matter all that much. Instead, through body language only, it will immediately become clear to EVERYONE IN THE RESTAURANT that your child is deeply unhappy. And no matter what you attempt to do - cajoling, bribery, tickling - absolutely nothing will work to stop the fury of a despondent toddler.

It is at that point that you will contemplate just leaving now.

You should probably heed that inner voice. It’s smarter than you are, you know.

Instead, like a crab fisherman in the midst of a blizzard on the Bering Sea, you will attempt to weather the storm. Big Mistake. The elements always win.

In this case, the element is a wayward toddler.

While you quickly reach your breaking point, he or she is just gearing up.

While you have been trying to reason your child way out of the tantrum with promises of french fries and threats of time out, your child is busy thinking: “Ha, ha! Don’t mom and dad know my tricks by now? They’re toting enough stuff to fill a U-Haul! Boy, all my toys are sure weighing them down! Do they really think ANY of the stuff they brought will really keep me happy? Are they serious?? … Hmmm… wait a second, anyone else notice that Daddy sure moves A LOT slower when he is carrying my stuff? I can definitely make it through the maze of tables, around the wait staff, and into the kitchen before he catches me!”

And, as Simon Cowell says, “Off you go!”

The race begins… your toddler steaming ahead, heedless of the impending danger, you wheezing like a three pack-a-day chain smoker, toys flying everywhere, as you take off in hot pursuit. All this happens much to the smirking delight and amusement of other diners, and the embarrassment of the the rest of your party. Who, I might add, is still waiting in the lobby, silently praying for the seating pager to vibrate and flash that your table is ready - soon.

Little do they know (clearly the rest of your party is childless) that the ordeal is far from over.

The “simple act” of just being seated bring us to Principle #5: Your child will buck like a wild bronco when attempting to place them into their designated seat at the table. Because, as any parent knows, kids hate sitting still more than they hate waiting for the table to be ready.

It does not matter if they will be sitting in a car seat, a high chair, a booster seat, a real chair, or a booth. Nope. Kids hate all things that attempt to confine them in one place, and seating in a restaurant certainly tries to accomplish that. Not even the lure of artery-clogging trans fats (proffered in the form of dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets and crispy, salty french fries) will entice them to sit still. Even if you manage to hog tie your kids into their seat (which earns you a medal right off the bat!) you have not won the war yet. For getting them into the chair can mean only one thing: now the fun REALLY begins!

Do you have any idea what kind of weaponry can be found on a typical restaurant table? If you have boys, I bet you’re aware of the potential dangers lurking within their grasp. If you are fortunate enough to only have girls, I’ll be kind enough to enlighten you: Silverware. Glasses. Drinks. Sippy cups. Straws. Sugar packets. Butter. Creamer. Glass salt and pepper shakers. Place mats. Ketchup bottles. Mustard jars. Crayons. Napkins. Saltine crackers. All of which are just waiting to be launched. Preferably at other diners. And this is before the food arrives!

Little boys just HAVE to touch things that don’t belong to them (setting a trend which will continue for the rest of their lives. Remember Tailhook? OK, digression. Moving on.) Especially if they are sharp or able to be thrown easily. Especially if you have told them “no, don’t touch.”

So you managed to get them seated. And order. Congratulations! But, don’t get too excited yet! You still have roughly the same odds of actually being able to eat your meal in peace as oh, say, winning the lottery. A snowball in hell stands a better chance than you do.

So how are you going to manage to eat some part of your meal? How will you keep the meltdowns to a minimum? Basically, the rule of survival is simple… and it applies to more than just dining out. In fact, I bet you use this strategy every day as a parent.

Without further adieu, may I present Principle #6: Parenting by distraction.

Yup, you read that right. Distraction. Basically, keeping the peace is an ever-so-slightly more sophisticated form of Bait and Switch. It works best when used as part of a parenting tag-team, but can be effective when used by just one parent. In essence, parenting by distraction is the never-ending attempt to refocus your child’s attention from something negative/dangerous/loud/messy onto something well, less so.

When you throw more than one child into the mix, parents must get more proficient at this principle. Quickly.

“How does this work?” you ask. Well, when your child wants to do or have something not acceptable, you keep offering your kid other options that you think are OK. Like this:

Child: mama dwink? soda? Mama DWINK? Soda? MAMA DWINK!!!! SODA!!!!! MAMA SODA DWINK!!!!!!! (this demand escalates frantically into shouting and is accompanied by banging on the table.)

Me: “Ty, you have a drink.  You have two, in fact. See, your milk is here. And your cup is there. Which do you want?”

Child: MAMA SODA DWINK NOW!!!! Meaning, Ty wants my drink, not his. Which mine is, of course, Diet Pepsi. Which Ty LOVES. No, I am not kidding.)

Me: Oh, look Ty, Croutons! Do you want croutons? Or crackers?

Child: MAMA SODA DWINK NOW!!!! MAMA SODA DWINK NOW!!!! More banging. A crayon is launched at my head. More banging. Some kicking, too.

(Editor’s note: At this point I wipe the sweat off my forehead and offer Ty my drink because 1) I suck and 2) I just want him to shut up.) This seems to pacify him for like a minute, until he begins rocking the high chair so hard I fear it may tip over. And yelling “OUT! DOWN! DOWN! DOWN!” And I say, “No Ty, we are going to eat dinner here. You need to stay in your seat.” Which works about as well as politely asking bin Laden to surrender. It doesn’t.

So I do the only thing I can do. When all else fails, move into Phase 2 of parenting by distraction: offer up your spouse as a sacrificial lamb.  I know, heartless right? But that doesn’t stop me from doing it. I turn to my husband and say “Jeremy, want to take him to see the parking lot?  So he can play in traffic?” (OK, just kidding about the traffic part. Kinda.)

And Jeremy, being the great dad he is, obliges both of us. And they head to the parking lot, with Ty struggling and yelping all the way. They exit, much to the delight of myself and the other patrons of this fine restaurant.

I spend the next 3 minutes and 42 seconds hanging my head in embarrassment, shoveling in as much food as I possibly can, and preparing for ”my turn” which is coming up next during the tag team effort of parenting by distraction.  What will I do to entertain darling Ty when he comes back in, no doubt kicking and screaming all the way? Will I successfully be able to feed Ty his dinner - since we came to the restaurant to actually EAT?

Naw, not a CHANCE. Lucky for us, the kid doesn’t really enjoy eating. He does, however, like games which involve eye-hand-mouth coordination. So we have taken to feeding him like ducks at the park, by tossing him snippets of french fries which he then catches in his mouth. As he weaves around and under the table. What, you didn’t think I was going to actually try to put Ty back in his seat, did you? We’re optimistic, but not CRAZY!!! Now, if I can only get him into the car seat to go home…

So, what do you do to make eating out less of a struggle? Any tips or tricks you’d like to share? Let me know!