It turns out that two-year-olds are excessively concerned about possession. Not of the demonic type, though I do sometimes wonder as he throws himself into a thrashing heap of screaming, writhing tantrum.
No, Monkey is mostly worried about ownership--specifically, what is, “MINE.” Sometimes he just wanders about the house, listing off his belongings.
“My car. My table. My froggie. My crayons.” He peacefully pats each item as he walks past.
“My monster truck.”
“NO! That’s MY MONSTER TRUCK!” Jabber pushes, shoves, body slams. There is wailing; there are tears. This scene is replayed many times throughout the day, as the toddler and preschooler negotiate ownership of all of the toys and such a million times. It turns out five-year-olds are just as concerned about these things.
Along with this is Monkey’s demand to “SHARE!” which is just a variation on, “GIVE IT TO ME! IT’S MINE!”
Which brings me to the topic of my breasts.
What? You didn’t catch the segue?
So I find myself nursing a two-year-old. All right. I support this. I have been saying since Monkey was born that I’d like to nurse him until he was two, which is a few months longer than his big brother nursed. Jabber gave it up cold turkey at 20 months, after I had something going on for three nights in a row and missed his bedtime session, which was basically all he was interested in at the time. On the third day, he solemnly patted my breasts and said, “Nummies gone bye-bye,” and after that, he wasn’t interested.
Not so with the Monk. Even after I went to Florida for five days, he is still going strong. He’s pretty flexible about nursing if I am not around; he stays overnight with the grandparents without a problem and never asks for it once. However, if I’m around, if I’m sitting down, he wants to nurse. About half the time he crawls up in my lap, showers me with kisses, and then just tips over on my lap and smiles at me sweetly, patting my shirt lightly and asking, “I have nummies pleeeeeeease?” He’s adorable and irresistible, and I have no problem nursing him.
Sometimes he’s downright heart-melting in his nursing bliss, such as several nights ago when David and I were going to bed, and he woke up halfway and made this seriously happy sighing sound. “Ahhh, nummies,” he whispered, followed by a couple of happy sleepy little chuckles. There was nothing to feel but love as I crawled into bed beside him and snuggled.
Other times, it’s not so cute, to be perfectly honest. Back to possession, demonic and otherwise, the two of us have yet to come to agreement about who owns the nummies. My reaction to his terrorist demands of “MINE NUMMIES NOW!” accompanied by shirt-tugging and tantrumming is to shut off supply indefinitely. My heart is hard. I do not negotiate.
“You are being a bully,” I say. “The nummies are closed.”
His reaction to the sudden cut-off is pretty consistent to that of any addict: he cries, he shakes, he begs, he bargains. He tries to sneak a quick slurp as I wash my hair over the tub. He promises to change.
“I be nice nummies,” he says, crawling up into my lap.
“These are Mama’s nummies,” I say.
“No. Mine.” His jaw is set in stubborn baby persistence.
“These are Mama’s nummies. But I may be persuaded to let you share them from time to time, if you are very polite and respectful of them, and if you agree to let go and leave me be the first time I ask. Also, I require you to keep your feet out of my mouth. And no pinching.”
He listens carefully to my conditions, lying across my lap with his hand just barely touching the hem of my shirt. “Okay,” he says, nodding solemnly. “I share.”
“All right then.” We begin to nurse, both of us on our best behavior, gazing adoringly into each other’s eyes. It is wonderful nursing a toddler!
Monkey detaches, just a little, just enough to speak. “Mine nummies,” he says softly, and then closes his eyes and gets back to business.
notes from a knew-it-all-- the blog of YA author ELISSA JANINE HOOLE
Showing posts with label extended breastfeeding. Show all posts
Showing posts with label extended breastfeeding. Show all posts
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Fever In, Fever Out
Just in time for the first week of school, I kissed Monkey's sleeping face two mornings ago and immediately thought, "Uh-oh."
A quick trip to the linen closet to fetch the ear thermometer confirmed what a mother's kiss had diagnosed: fever. A dose of tylenol, a call to David at work, and off we rushed to daycare, where Lovely DCP took Monkey in her arms and snuggled him in a way that made my broken heart heal up a little bit. There really was no way for me to stay home with him, not the first week of classes, and it's so nice to have someone like DCP to take care of him!
That night, his fever climbed up to a scary 104.2, which we have learned is just Monkey's way of dealing with sickness. He has been up over 105 more times than I can count, and it's just about the saddest thing on earth to see him like that, feeling so wretched.
My scariest parenting moment to date was fever-related, when Monkey had a febrile seizure in the Target parking lot, just after his first birthday. I can still see the way he looked, sitting there in the cart that night, with his little green fleece jacket and his red striped hat on. His hands were snug in little blue mittens, and we ran in for some post-Christmas necessities, late in the evening--past everyone's bedtime. He seemed normal the whole time we were piling diapers and pacifiers and whatever else in our cart, hurriedly sweeping the aisles to get out of there before the kids melted down.
Then I noticed him sort of staring blankly while we were checking out. He seemed like he was in a little zone, and even the cashier said something like, "Wow, he's about to fall asleep, isn't he?" I feel bad now because I laughed and thought it was so cute the way he had the dreamy stares, and because I had kept him all bundled up in his hat, coat, and mittens.
We got out to the van, and I remember that David loaded Jabber into his seat and gave him a Pop-Tart (yes, I know, no Parent-of-the-Year Award) while I dropped the cart into the corral and started tucking Monkey into his seat. I had his arms inside the straps when I noticed he was staring even more blankly than before. Somehow it just registered that he was not right, that he was not actually responding to his surroundings, and I began calling his name, trying to get him to look at me.
David was already in the driver's seat, and he knew something was wrong as my voice started getting more and more frantic, and Monkey didn't stop his fixed stare off to the left. Then, while I watched, his eyes rolled backwards and his whole body started convulsing stiffly. I screamed to David, "He's seizing! He's having a seizure!"
It was the scariest thing ever, the way his little face was instantly gray, like all the life was gone, and how little bits of foam frothed out of his mouth, and how his body was so stiff while it was jerking that we couldn't pick him up because we couldn't get his arms out of the straps of his seat.
David was so calm and reassuring the whole time, and I was crying and saying, "He's not breathing!" over and over again. It was terrible. I called 9-1-1 and told them my little baby was having a seizure, but by that time it was over and he was sort of sleeping in my arms in the front seat, making a little gasping cry with every breath. A fire truck came, and David talked to the paramedics so calmly, telling them exactly how long the seizure was and everything. I can't imagine what I would have done if he hadn't been there.
They wanted us to go the ER for a CT scan, so we had to put him back into his seat, and he woke up and cried so hard the entire way to the hospital. I rode the whole way standing next to his seat, trying to hold him and comfort Jabber at the same time. He cried nonstop the whole time we were getting him checked into the ER, until finally I jumped up on the examining table and nursed him. He would not stop nursing the whole time, so they drew blood, checked his temperature, everything--all while he was focused on nursing like his nummies were the only thing that existed in his universe. I was prepared for someone to make a stupid comment, but the doctor assured me that his wife had several children and nursed all of them, and obviously everyone preferred a baby happily suckling to a baby screaming like the world was over.
In the end, everything was fine and normal--it was "just" a febrile seizure and wasn't likely to do him any harm. I'm still certain that it was a reaction to his MMR vaccine, since it exactly fit into the timeline of the febrile seizure reaction in the paperwork from the CDC, but two doctors insisted it wasn't so. It's sad that doctors have become so afraid of vaccine criticism that they are pretty much unable to admit that a bad reaction could happen.
Luckily, though they said he will have a higher risk of having another seizure until he's like five or so, we haven't seen another one yet, even with about a zillion fevers in the meantime. I sure hope I never have to witness another one!
A quick trip to the linen closet to fetch the ear thermometer confirmed what a mother's kiss had diagnosed: fever. A dose of tylenol, a call to David at work, and off we rushed to daycare, where Lovely DCP took Monkey in her arms and snuggled him in a way that made my broken heart heal up a little bit. There really was no way for me to stay home with him, not the first week of classes, and it's so nice to have someone like DCP to take care of him!
That night, his fever climbed up to a scary 104.2, which we have learned is just Monkey's way of dealing with sickness. He has been up over 105 more times than I can count, and it's just about the saddest thing on earth to see him like that, feeling so wretched.
My scariest parenting moment to date was fever-related, when Monkey had a febrile seizure in the Target parking lot, just after his first birthday. I can still see the way he looked, sitting there in the cart that night, with his little green fleece jacket and his red striped hat on. His hands were snug in little blue mittens, and we ran in for some post-Christmas necessities, late in the evening--past everyone's bedtime. He seemed normal the whole time we were piling diapers and pacifiers and whatever else in our cart, hurriedly sweeping the aisles to get out of there before the kids melted down.
Then I noticed him sort of staring blankly while we were checking out. He seemed like he was in a little zone, and even the cashier said something like, "Wow, he's about to fall asleep, isn't he?" I feel bad now because I laughed and thought it was so cute the way he had the dreamy stares, and because I had kept him all bundled up in his hat, coat, and mittens.
We got out to the van, and I remember that David loaded Jabber into his seat and gave him a Pop-Tart (yes, I know, no Parent-of-the-Year Award) while I dropped the cart into the corral and started tucking Monkey into his seat. I had his arms inside the straps when I noticed he was staring even more blankly than before. Somehow it just registered that he was not right, that he was not actually responding to his surroundings, and I began calling his name, trying to get him to look at me.
David was already in the driver's seat, and he knew something was wrong as my voice started getting more and more frantic, and Monkey didn't stop his fixed stare off to the left. Then, while I watched, his eyes rolled backwards and his whole body started convulsing stiffly. I screamed to David, "He's seizing! He's having a seizure!"
It was the scariest thing ever, the way his little face was instantly gray, like all the life was gone, and how little bits of foam frothed out of his mouth, and how his body was so stiff while it was jerking that we couldn't pick him up because we couldn't get his arms out of the straps of his seat.
David was so calm and reassuring the whole time, and I was crying and saying, "He's not breathing!" over and over again. It was terrible. I called 9-1-1 and told them my little baby was having a seizure, but by that time it was over and he was sort of sleeping in my arms in the front seat, making a little gasping cry with every breath. A fire truck came, and David talked to the paramedics so calmly, telling them exactly how long the seizure was and everything. I can't imagine what I would have done if he hadn't been there.
They wanted us to go the ER for a CT scan, so we had to put him back into his seat, and he woke up and cried so hard the entire way to the hospital. I rode the whole way standing next to his seat, trying to hold him and comfort Jabber at the same time. He cried nonstop the whole time we were getting him checked into the ER, until finally I jumped up on the examining table and nursed him. He would not stop nursing the whole time, so they drew blood, checked his temperature, everything--all while he was focused on nursing like his nummies were the only thing that existed in his universe. I was prepared for someone to make a stupid comment, but the doctor assured me that his wife had several children and nursed all of them, and obviously everyone preferred a baby happily suckling to a baby screaming like the world was over.
In the end, everything was fine and normal--it was "just" a febrile seizure and wasn't likely to do him any harm. I'm still certain that it was a reaction to his MMR vaccine, since it exactly fit into the timeline of the febrile seizure reaction in the paperwork from the CDC, but two doctors insisted it wasn't so. It's sad that doctors have become so afraid of vaccine criticism that they are pretty much unable to admit that a bad reaction could happen.
Luckily, though they said he will have a higher risk of having another seizure until he's like five or so, we haven't seen another one yet, even with about a zillion fevers in the meantime. I sure hope I never have to witness another one!
Sunday, May 18, 2008
She Isn't Still Nursing, Is She?
I love my husband. This weekend he got the very first "She isn't still nursing, is she???" comment for this child, and David handled it flawlessly. He smiled at Grandma and answered, "Why, yes she is. Monkey still enjoys nursing, though he doesn't do it all that often. He eats full meals of normal food and drinks regular milk, but he likes to nurse, too."
And he does, too, even though sometimes it's literally only a minute. Sometimes he's just cranky as all get-out, really having a tough time of things, easily frustrated, battling with everyone's wills, and all it takes is three minutes of nummies to make him all back to smiles and calmness. Jabber was just a little bit older when he weaned, and David and I were talking on the drive home about how the Jabberwock didn't seem nearly as connected to nursing as Monkey is at the same age. But I guess I should start expecting the comments to sneak out here and there now.
And you know what? Let 'em comment. I will just smile and say yes, we are still nursing, and I was thinking about how maybe when he goes to college I'll pump for him and send him little care package coolers of breastmilk, since the follow-up question always seems to be, "Well then when ARE you going to wean???" as if there's a magic cut off date, and if you miss it, well, you're screwed. Whatever. With Jabberwock, I was a little more eager to cut him free, since I had to eliminate dairy from my diet while he was nursing. But with Monkey, I'm happy, and he's happy. So what's the big deal?
I was thinking about how much more confidence I have in my parenting decisions with number two than I had with my first son. With Jabberwock, I knew that there were things that made sense to me--like breastfeeding or "co-sleeping" (though I hate that term)--that weren't always supported in mainstream reading material or from family and friends. But I was hesitant, too, unsure. What if he never was able to soothe himself to sleep, like the books said? Am I going to still be nursing him when he's six years old? It helped, though, that everywhere I went, people mentioned what a nice kid he was, how well-adjusted. It helped that he was so happy, that because I had tried above all to foster a secure attachment with him, he feels like he's on pretty solid ground today, at age four. All of this helps me to feel sure of myself and my methods with Monkey now on round two.
I know that Monkey will sleep just fine in his own bed someday, that he'll wean without trauma, that just because I carried him in a sling for much of his babyhood doesn't stop him from venturing out into the world to bravely explore. And beyond just feeling more at ease with defending myself from other people's judgment, I feel like I should also be an advocate for others who may have interest or need support to parent in a way that is a little off the beaten track.
And he does, too, even though sometimes it's literally only a minute. Sometimes he's just cranky as all get-out, really having a tough time of things, easily frustrated, battling with everyone's wills, and all it takes is three minutes of nummies to make him all back to smiles and calmness. Jabber was just a little bit older when he weaned, and David and I were talking on the drive home about how the Jabberwock didn't seem nearly as connected to nursing as Monkey is at the same age. But I guess I should start expecting the comments to sneak out here and there now.
And you know what? Let 'em comment. I will just smile and say yes, we are still nursing, and I was thinking about how maybe when he goes to college I'll pump for him and send him little care package coolers of breastmilk, since the follow-up question always seems to be, "Well then when ARE you going to wean???" as if there's a magic cut off date, and if you miss it, well, you're screwed. Whatever. With Jabberwock, I was a little more eager to cut him free, since I had to eliminate dairy from my diet while he was nursing. But with Monkey, I'm happy, and he's happy. So what's the big deal?
I was thinking about how much more confidence I have in my parenting decisions with number two than I had with my first son. With Jabberwock, I knew that there were things that made sense to me--like breastfeeding or "co-sleeping" (though I hate that term)--that weren't always supported in mainstream reading material or from family and friends. But I was hesitant, too, unsure. What if he never was able to soothe himself to sleep, like the books said? Am I going to still be nursing him when he's six years old? It helped, though, that everywhere I went, people mentioned what a nice kid he was, how well-adjusted. It helped that he was so happy, that because I had tried above all to foster a secure attachment with him, he feels like he's on pretty solid ground today, at age four. All of this helps me to feel sure of myself and my methods with Monkey now on round two.
I know that Monkey will sleep just fine in his own bed someday, that he'll wean without trauma, that just because I carried him in a sling for much of his babyhood doesn't stop him from venturing out into the world to bravely explore. And beyond just feeling more at ease with defending myself from other people's judgment, I feel like I should also be an advocate for others who may have interest or need support to parent in a way that is a little off the beaten track.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Nursing You Now
Here's a first draft of a poem I "wrote" this evening while driving and while working out at the gym, for my son Monkey, age 17 months. I have a feeling it's not finished at all, but since this is like a journal, I'll post it and then rework it later if it works out that way!
nursing you now
nursing you now
can feel like embracing an earthquake,
taming a tangle
of limbs grown
suddenly, startlingly too long--
knots of knobby knees
and your daddy's long, elegant toes
(no, no, baby, they don't go in my nose!)
nursing you now
has become a dialogue
full of jokes and surprises--
your mouth, full of mischief,
chug chugs like a train
through your latch,
then pops off smiling
for a quick Choooochoooo!
nursing you now
can feel like holding a hurricane,
my wanderer waylaid
and wiggling away,
pinching and prodding and pawing
until this moment,
this instant--
now
nursing you now
is a fleeting island of calm,
your clear eyes locked with mine,
your hands softly circling my breast,
and the sweet perfect sound of you suckling--
the syllables of your satisfaction.
nursing you now
nursing you now
can feel like embracing an earthquake,
taming a tangle
of limbs grown
suddenly, startlingly too long--
knots of knobby knees
and your daddy's long, elegant toes
(no, no, baby, they don't go in my nose!)
nursing you now
has become a dialogue
full of jokes and surprises--
your mouth, full of mischief,
chug chugs like a train
through your latch,
then pops off smiling
for a quick Choooochoooo!
nursing you now
can feel like holding a hurricane,
my wanderer waylaid
and wiggling away,
pinching and prodding and pawing
until this moment,
this instant--
now
nursing you now
is a fleeting island of calm,
your clear eyes locked with mine,
your hands softly circling my breast,
and the sweet perfect sound of you suckling--
the syllables of your satisfaction.
Monkey nursing back when a camera
wasn't so much more interesting than nummies!
wasn't so much more interesting than nummies!
Saturday, May 3, 2008
"Extended" Nursing on NPR
It's an all-too-common situation: Elissa indulging in her NPR addiction, parked outside her destination with the van running and her hand on the key, unable to shut the car off until the fascinating interview or commentary or whatever is over. I am a public radio addict. I listen compulsively, and then I talk at length to anyone who will listen about my thoughts on the programs I listen to. Unfortunately, I also don't really have a very good memory for names, so it usually goes like, "Yeah, there was the guy on, and he was talking to this other guy...I think the second guy climbed a mountain or wrote a book about climbing a mountain, or something like that, but anyway, I can't remember exactly how it started, but..."
Today I was listening to "Weekend America" on my way home from grocery shopping, and I heard this segment from Bill Radke. The story itself is relevant to parenting, and interesting to me because his daughter is a month or two younger than my son Monkey. It is all about the anxiety that parents feel about our own parenting abilities--how we want our kids to feel self-confident and secure, but yet we don't always take our own advice when it comes to relaxing and having confidence in ourselves as parents. Instead, we compare ourselves and our children to our friends, neighbors, and preschool cohorts.
But what really got my attention about this segment was when he was describing the home visit that the clinical psychologist did with his family to determine the things they were doing right and wrong in the raising of their first child. The psychologist asked Radke's wife, Susanna, to describe her morning routine, and the first thing she talked about was snuggling together in the glider, nursing! Yes, nursing her fifteen-month-old toddler! Hurray!!!
I realize this is not huge news, but just the fact that it wasn't news is terrific. I dream of an America where breastfeeding, and even breastfeeding beyond infancy, is just so much a part of our cultural norms that it doesn't get any special mention. Now that would be huge news.
Today I was listening to "Weekend America" on my way home from grocery shopping, and I heard this segment from Bill Radke. The story itself is relevant to parenting, and interesting to me because his daughter is a month or two younger than my son Monkey. It is all about the anxiety that parents feel about our own parenting abilities--how we want our kids to feel self-confident and secure, but yet we don't always take our own advice when it comes to relaxing and having confidence in ourselves as parents. Instead, we compare ourselves and our children to our friends, neighbors, and preschool cohorts.
But what really got my attention about this segment was when he was describing the home visit that the clinical psychologist did with his family to determine the things they were doing right and wrong in the raising of their first child. The psychologist asked Radke's wife, Susanna, to describe her morning routine, and the first thing she talked about was snuggling together in the glider, nursing! Yes, nursing her fifteen-month-old toddler! Hurray!!!
I realize this is not huge news, but just the fact that it wasn't news is terrific. I dream of an America where breastfeeding, and even breastfeeding beyond infancy, is just so much a part of our cultural norms that it doesn't get any special mention. Now that would be huge news.
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