Note to PCOS: You suck.

Last Thursday Oliver had his usual 6 month check up. I expected it to be no big deal because, well.. his other visits were no big deal. For this visit, his doctor was out of town so we were scheduled with another pediatrician. The new doctor's nurse came in, asked us if we had an specific concerns for this month, and I said no. She told me to strip him down and take him to the scale.

We weighed him with no problems, and he didn't scream like he has in the past. The nurse starts clicking on the computer and then turns to me and asks.. "The scale did say he was 15 pounds... right?"

I didn't even know. I don't really care much about his weight. I can't remember numbers worth crap so it could have been 15 or 30 and I wouldn't have known. She had written down 15 pounds, but thought something must be wrong because at his last visit he weighed 14 lbs 14 oz.

When she said that, I figured she just used the scale wrong so I wasn't initially worried. We went back and weighed him again, and the scale said the same thing... 15 pounds. A second scale confirmed the first's judgement - he really does weigh only 15 pounds.

In two months and 1 week's time, he had only gained two ounces.

I wanted to take back what I said before. Yes, nurse, I do have concerns and questions now.

The doctor seemed to take her time in coming in, which gave me plenty of time to worry about what was wrong. When she did come in, she jumped right in about his weight. No how are yous I'm fine thank yous. Just -

"I see your son hasn't gained weight."

That made me feel really good. The whole time she was questioning me about his eating habits I felt like she was pegging me for some sort of child abuser. I already felt bad enough, but she kept asking me...

"Are you sure you feed him at least 5 times a day? Do you stop him from eating before he's done? Do you ignore his hunger cues to keep him on a more convenient schedule?"

No. I fed him all the time. He was pretty happy and he had grown longer than some of his clothing so I thought he was fine. I wasn't paying attention to any of that. I assumed that he was growing. I assumed that, you know... once you get a hang of this gaining weight stuff you don't turn back.  I guess I was wrong, because my 90th percentile whopping big boy suddenly dropped to a 10th percentile petite little thing.

It was everything I could do not to freak out and cry. I wanted to keep saying I feed him I feed him I feed him! But I felt like repeating that would make her grow more and more suspicious of my caregiver skills. She told me about all of the bad things this could mean. Things wrong with Oliver, things wrong with me... She told me all of the statistics about what he "should be" but isn't.

And then she took a deep breath and said: Well, it could just be one bad weigh in. A temporary setback. Sometimes these things happen. Come back in a month and we'll reevaluate our situation. No big deal. I'll just overtly accuse you of neglecting him and you will shrug it off and come back in one month. Sound good? Good.

It's not good. I feel bad. I feel like I've failed him. I feel like I've starved him and its my fault for not realizing it. He seemed happy. He did grow an inch taller. I was doing my best and I thought I was doing a good job and then to hear that I just felt like I failed. It is hard for me to fail. It is especially hard for me to fail when I've given it everything I've got. It is especially hard for me to fail Oliver because he needs me to do everything for him. I don't ever want to let him down.

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I wrote what was above the break a few days ago, and it was making me feel so bad that I just couldn't write any more of it. I write in this space to make myself feel better, and if writing isn't making me feel better I don't want to do it. The situation has gotten better now, though, so I feel like I can finish this. The end of that doctors visit was this: go home, try to feed him more often, and come back in a month and we'll check him again. Since he didn't seem to be nursing that well, I started giving him supplementary bottles of breastmilk or formula. I hated giving him formula, but I wanted to make sure he wasn't hungry.

Then on Monday I took Oliver back in to the doctor because he was refusing all foods except his solid foods. I saw him pulling on his ear so I thought he might have an ear infection. (He didn't.) When I took him in, they weighed him (twice) and found he had gained 10 ounces! Ten ounces in 3 days was a good sign - it meant that there was nothing wrong with Oliver, because clearly he is able to absorb the calories if we can pump more into him.

The bad news is that my milk supply has taken a dive. They suspect it is because of my Poly Cystic Ovary Sydrome, aka PCOS.  Basically I can't make up enough to meet his demands. I still make milk, but it comes in very slowly... despite pumping, galactagogues, eating more, drinking more, etc. I have a meeting with a doctor on Monday to talk about different options we can take, but there may be nothing I can do about this problem. I may just have to live with it, always supplementing him with bottles until we wean him.  I really would love to breastfeed him until he turns a year old, but it just might not be in the cards for me. I don't want to speak too much about it too soon - I'll find out on Monday what our game plan will be.


Stupid PCOS. Go away.

Breast milk, the snake oil of 2010?

I like my hippie doctor. Really, I do.. but when she starts telling me to use my own breastmilk to clear up my backne, I think I start to question her judgement. She referred me to this site and I was freaked out. A lot. Let me share with you my own opinions.

Ways to use breastmilk, according to hippies and La Leche League junkies:

1. Treat pink eye. I can see this in an infant. It is a bit gross in theory, but hey.. I'd try it. On myself? On another person? Ew.

2. Mosquito bite, acne, eczema, and rash relief. This is also gross. But again... in an infant? Maybe I'd do it. Maybe. But I definitely wouldn't tell anyone about it.

3. Facial cleanser. As in, on your face. As in, replace your Oil of Olay with secretions from your own body. Yeah, I didn't think so either.

4. Treat sore throats and mouth sores. Ew. I am not drinking my own milk. I am definitely not "swishing" around a mouthful of breastmilk to treat a canker sore or something. Disgusting.

5. Immunity boost. Forget the extra buckwheat shots in your smoothies at Jamba Juice. I will just give you a shot glass full of my own warm, creamy breastmilk.

6. Heal scratches, burns, and scrapes. Like Bactine, but it doesn't sting! Or does it? Who knows, because I am not willing to try this one out.

The list goes on and on... Chicken pox, leg ulcers (!?!), cracked lips, contact lens solution.... All bizarre manner of things that breast milk can be used to treat. The site even mentions the ways in which donor breast milk is used by doctors. (Turns out I should have requested a wetnurse when I got pneumonia a couple of years ago.)

But, the mother of all weird uses? Read this excerpt yourself, becasue I have nothing more to say.

"Sexual Lubricant: Males can squirt the breast milk directly onto the penis in order to use as a lubricant during sexual intercourse. Females can hand express the milk into a sterile cup in order to do this. Breast milk can be used the same as a couple would use Vaseline, KY Jelly, or Astroglide."

No witty remarks necessary, I think this one can stand alone.

(P.S. I would like to add that you should really read that snake oil ad. It has some great advertising that would really make me wnat to buy it. "The strongest and best linement known for pain and lameness!" and "Good for everything a liniment ought to be good for!" Priceless.)

My baby is a vampire.

We already know that I don't like nursing. I've stuck with it because I know it is good for him and if I distract myself enough each time I feed him, I don't notice that I don't like it. But now I can'ti gnore it. He bites. With a vengeance. This morning he bit me so hard that I bled. I cried.

He laughed.

And my thought was... seriously!?! YOU LAUGH ABOUT MY PAIN?!! I don't think you understand, kid. Even as far back as a year ago, you were making me feel like a disgustingly overstuffed sausage.  You kicked my ribcage to mush. You robbed me of my dignity, making me pee when I sneezed. All summer long I was hot and sweaty and I couldn't breathe. Then, in the culmination of all things uncomfortable, you tore me a new one on my lady bits. Literally.

And, believe it or not, it didn't stop there! You took away my sleep. You've scratched my boobs to ribbons. You killed any semblance of personal hygeine, household cleanliness, presence of mind that I had. My social life is lacking and the costs to keep you are astronomical.

And I accept this. I will smile my way through that. I understand that you had no real say in any of those things... But when you intentionally BITE THE NIPPLE THAT FEEDS YOU, I put my foot down.

Or at least I would, if I knew how. I tried, really I did.  I've shouted OW! I've screamed NO! I've put away my boob and distracted you. Either you bawl or you laugh, with no consistent patterns. I am baffled. I don't know how to stop you, aside from weaning, which I really do not want to do yet.

So maybe, please, you would consider not biting me? Your new teeth are great and all but I cannot rock the bleeding nipples look. I shouldn't have to figure out how to get bloodstains out of my bras.

So, please?  Pretty please? I'll let you have a sip of my water. You can stay up late tonight. You can have two stories before bed. I'll let you take a bath without making you wash your hair. I won't leave you in any mechanical mothering machines all day!!

Can't we reach an agreement?

Jared, making waffles.

My fiance is a disaster in the kitchen. I accept this. Usually, I think it is funny. So tonight, when he came home from a study group and announced that he was going to make waffles and bacon for dinner, I said sure.

Jared making dinner means one of two things:
1. Jared will attempt to make dinner, get in over his head halfway through and yell for me to help. And by help, I mean finish whatever he is doing.
2. Jared attempts to make dinner, gets in over his head halfway through and refuses to ask for help. Food comes out not resembling food. We order pizza or have sandwiches.

Either way, I have to be on hand to field any variety of questions. Tonight, with the waffles, I expected difficulties. But, honestly, I thought he could do it. You mix the mix, pour it in the iron, wait for the light and DONE! But I've been wrong before.

Jared: Can I over mix this batter? It doesn't look right. Its lumpy.
Me: Yes. You can over mix. Its supposed to be lumpy.
Jared, 5 minutes later: Are you sure this looks right?
Me: Yes. IT IS FINE AND STOP MIXING IT YOU HAVE KILLED IT. IT IS DEAD. RIP, WAFFLE BATTER.

How do I get the bacon grease out of the pan?

How do I clean off the waffle iron? Do I have to get off these dried on bits?

Do I have to use a paper towel? What if I just used a rag? Where is a rag? Do we have any?

How do I know when the bacon is done? THIS DOESN"T LOOK LIKE BACON!

I walk into the kitchen, and it is hazy with smoke. "Do you have the flame on full power?" Yes. "Oh... You might not want to. Your bacon fat is burning." What? Why not?! (This is a man thing, I think. To use optimum  highest possible heat AT ALL TIMES.) It is a good thing our smoke alarm broke last weekend.

He asked how to do the bacon, and I told him to cut it in half with the poultry shears so it will fit in the pan better. I came out, and yes, he had cut it in half... But he was only doign two half pieces at a time. AKA, one whole strip of bacon. Good thing he cut it in half. Don't want to crowd the pan.

Five minutes later, after I told him he can add more, I came back into the kitchen at his frantic cries for help to find that he has, indeed, added more bacon to the pan. Except for some reason he felt like he had to cut it into approx 1 in. pieces. It was literally like frying up bacon bits.

Then, as soon as I walked out of the kitchen I hear him exclaim, "How do you do this all the time!?!!"

And at that point I realized I should just have him watch Doobie and try to save wahts left of dinner.