Operation Pink Herring

Giving up the gun

Joel gently suggested that perhaps I should lay off posting about breastfeeding after my last couple of thrush posts, and I know. I know. So that's what I've been doing. By not posting at all. But now I'm back! To talk about... breastfeeding.

I had half-written several posts in my head that were going to detail our long battle against thrush. These posts all ended happily with the One Thing That Finally Worked, sort of like a Modern Girl's Guide to Beating Candida. I got myself through the really terrible days by imagining myself in the future, happily nursing my baby without a palace of pillows arranged carefully around me and a headache from gritting my teeth the whole time.

That won't be happening, because I quit breastfeeding yesterday.

SAY WUT?

Remember when I was complaining about how long breastfeeding took, and I said I hated it? That statement has been haunting me. That was when I was pain-free and everything was going fabulously. I want to go back in time and punch myself in the face. When my OB told me that I had to quit breastfeeding as soon as possible yesterday, I burst into tears. Why? Why is it such an emotional thing? As I held Hannah in my arms today and gave her a bottle, I asked myself how this was so different than nursing. (Besides, of course, the ten minutes of fighting I had to go through to get her to take the bottle. THAT'S FUN.) There's nothing but a thin t-shirt between us. She's still getting fed, and I'm not in pain. Oh, but it's so different.

SERIOUS BABY KNOWS UR NOT TAKIN BOOBS AWAY

I don't feel like this was my fault and I know for sure that I did everything (EVERYTHING) to beat it, but... I'm just heartbroken. And if my OB hadn't told me point blank that I needed to stop immediately and then called a surgery consult because she thought I needed stitches (in my nipples. Just in case that wasn't clear. Do you want me to say nipples a few more times, just to make sure my poor brother gets the mental picture?) (NIPPLES.) I'd still be trucking along, telling myself that the next thing was going to be It. The thing that finally cured me.

(I didn't get stitches. Thank you Jesus.)

In fact, I haven't quite stopped yet. I nursed Hannah yesterday because she refused the first formula I tried to give her and I had to feed her before I went to the store to get more. And then I nursed her this morning to take the edge off my rock hard boobs. And I will do so again tonight, just because I don't want to get a plugged duct or mastitis or something. And because I am possibly addicted to breastfeeding and I just cannot let go. (But I'm going to. Tomorrow!) Every time now I think "this is probably the last time." And then I cry, because, oh, I just wish things could have been different.

We tried EVERYTHING. Oral nystatin for Hannah, oral diflucan for me, diflucan for both Hannah and me, over 30 days of gentian violet, grapefruit seed extract, vinegar rinse, probiotics, yogurt, low sugar diet, sunshine, excessive laundering of everything in the house, boiling everything in the house, bleaching everything in the house. I had pretty much gotten used to washing every blanket and bib and burp cloth and outfit and towel after a single use and boiling pacifiers every day. And I could even deal with the pain, which came and went. But then, over the course of one weekend, the yeast somehow managed to eat away most of the skin on my nipples. It is easily the most disgusting thing I've ever seen in my life. But even that I could take, because it convinced my OB to refill my prescription and I got a matching one for Hannah and I was sure that we were finally on the right track! And so I kept going! For five more weeks.

And five weeks later, not much had changed. Instead, air moving over my boobs had become excruciating (and a key to keeping thrush at bay? Air drying after every feeding). In the meantime, the pain and stress and my constant trying to push feedings back just a few more minutes because I really just wasn't ready to go through that again caused my supply to fall way off, to the point where at Hannah's most recent checkup she'd fallen from the 5th percentile for weight right off the chart. Still, I thought we'd be OK. I started taking a shitload of fenugreek to boost my supply back up and I started feeding her every two hours on the dot. I figured we'd supplement with formula if we needed to, and I made another appointment with my OB, hoping she would increase my dose of diflucan or put me on something else or do... something.

She did do something. She took one look at my boobs and told me that I needed to stop.

When people asked me if I planned to breastfeed (and let me tell you, a LOT of people ask a pregnant lady if she's going to breastfeed, from doctors who are doing their job to strangers on the street who don't know how to mind their own damn business), I always said I was planning to try. I knew that a lot of people tried and couldn't (my own mother being one of them), and I thought that was totally understandable and OK. I always intended to try my best and accept it if things didn't work out. But apparently I am not very good at that last part. "It's OK, maybe we can try again in a few months," Joel comforted me yesterday. Noooot exactly, I explained. I think it's that finality, the knowledge that once I wean her for real that is it, no going back and trying one last thing, that is really getting to me.

I know we'll be OK. This is not the end of the world. I have a happy, healthy baby and everything is going to be fine. But you'll pardon me if I just have one more little cry about it, and then I have to go try to convince Joel that we should have another baby right now so I can have a breastfeeding do-over.

(Kidding! Mostly.)

No, YOU'RE still posting Christmas photos

My latest concern about Hannah's health (not including thrush, we'll get to that later) is that she's not getting enough sleep. She sleeps well at night (and that's all I'll say about that, because I don't want to jinx it), so I figured it was cool with me if she just wanted to stay awake all day. I mean, I kind if envied people who could put their babies down in the crib for a stretch of a few hours and, like, do other stuff. But Hannah is generally a satisfied customer these days and I like hanging out with her all day. But then I got my weekly BabyCenter email and it said that babies her age need to be getting around fifteen hours of sleep a day. Uhhhh. Yeah. Even with her excellent night-sleeping habits, Hannah is at most getting ten hours of sleep a day. And, again, I don't mind hanging out with her, but apparently this lack of sleep is stunting her brain growth and stuff (paraphrasing). So I decided that was it! We'd start making her take naps!

So the next day I swaddled her up a few hours after she woke up in the morning, rocked her a bit in the rocking chair, and BOOM. Out like a light. Amazing I thought. This napping thing is great! That was super easy!

That lasted two days. Then she decided she preferred to stay awake and grin at me for forty five minutes instead of falling asleep. Or she'd fall asleep, I'd put her down in the swing (not the crib. Dear god, not the crib. We have learned our lesson on the crib, and that lesson is that cribs are very nice decorative pieces) and fifteen minutes later I'd look over and see her wide awake, smiling at me from across the room. NO! You're supposed to be sleeping! Stop smiling at me and let your brain grow!

Now she's decided that she'll nap... as long as it's on a human body. She'll take a four-hour nap on Joel's chest in the evening. She'll snooze happily in the sling while I bulldoze around the house, trying not to whack her into anything (it's just like being pregnant again! Except even more back-breaking!). But put her down? Hell no.

So my new approach is to try to put her to bed earlier. This approach also worked well for the first few days, but last night I got her to sleep at the early hour of 10:15pm and as a reward, she woke up for the day at 6:30am. Instead of the normal 7:30 or 8:30. Again, I'm really not complaining. I would have murdered someone a few months ago to get eight hours of uninterrupted sleep. It's glorious! But the problem is that I'm out of things to do. I've already fed Hannah, eaten my own breakfast, showered, and gotten us both dressed for the day. And dried my hair. And made myself a sandwich for lunch. I half-jokingly asked Joel if I could tag along with him to work today. We wouldn't be a bother, I swear! We'd just sit quietly by his desk, listening to other adult humans talk! And then we could have our ham sandwiches together and I wouldn't be drowning in loneliness and boredom at 9am. Possibly it is time for me to find some friends. 

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Bored and lonely as I may get sometimes, I love this three-month age. You guys told me things would get better, and it's not that I didn't believe you. I just didn't realize how much better they would get, and how fast. Hannah is, generally speaking, just so much fun to be around. She smiles a huge grin at everything from diaper changes to seeing the cat walk by. The nightly five-hour crying jags seem to have played themselves out (THANK YOU JESUS). And most importantly, I feel about a thousand times more confident. When she cries I can figure out what the problem is and fix it, whether she's tired or hungry or just in need of a change of scenery. I look forward to outings rather than having a panic attack about the thought of leaving the house alone with the baby. And have I mentioned the sleeping? At night? And how it's the best, most glorious thing in the world? I'm no longer wishing desperately for her to hurry up and get older because I just cannot take the crying any more, for the love of god. And looking back, Hannah was an easy baby. She first slept through the night at five weeks old. And yes, she cried and cried and cried on several occasions (including one day where she cried for twenty-seven hours straight, and I am not exaggerating one bit with that figure. She only stopped to eat and to take three two-hour naps; other than that it was all crying, all the time. From 9pm one night until she finally exhausted herself at midnight the next night.), but it ended by about six weeks. Oh, how easy it to look back and say that it was only about six weeks of misery. "Only" six weeks! HAHAHAHA babies are insane. But three month old babies are so much less insane and lo, it is fantastic.

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But what about the thrush, you're wondering. WHAT ABOUT THE THRUSH. Surely it's a distant memory, just like the endless cryfests? Oh, how I wish. Thrush has pretty much completely ruined my breastfeeding experience. I used to think people who talked about their breastfeeding "experience" were totally lame, but now I'd kill to have any experience other than never ending laundry and pain and boobs that look so nasty that it'd made you puke if I showed you the pictures. And yes, I have pictures, because I fully plan to shove them in the face of the pediatrician who told us that we didn't have thrush and I needed to just deal with the quote-unquote discomfort because "sometimes breastfeeding hurts". Except I am going to a new pediatrician now because I was not willing to believe that giant gashes filled with something that looked like mold on your boobs was normal. So I'm not sure what the pictures are for. Maybe to show to Hannah when she turns fourteen and it's time to have the talk about Why You Don't Want to Have a Baby When You're in High School. I'd say that some day, I'll look back on this experience and appreciate how it made me stronger, but that assumes that some day I will not have thrush and after thirteen weeks I am pretty sure I'm going to die having thrush. Put it on my tombstone.

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And now allow me to bore you with some boring family photos. I am feeling kind of sad that I didn't send out Christmas cards this year so now you will suffer for my laziness.

Merry "Christmas"! Which we celebrated, per tradition, at my brother's house the week before real Christmas. Hannah's second trip to the Motherland (aka New Jersey)!

Cheesy family portrait from actual Christmas, which we spent at home, doing nothing and driving absolutely nowhere. Miraculously, Hannah's mouth is not wide open.

Hannah, her loot, and her kickass smile. This is why I love three months.

On Christmas Eve we went to see the lights on 34th Street, this insane block in north Baltimore that goes totally crazy with the Christmas lights. We brought the stroller. That was a mistake.

Now pretend these photos I took with my cell phone tie this post together. Later!

Quittin' time

I was supposed to go back to work today. But it's 9:30am and I'm still in my pajamas, and that's not because I overslept on my first day back (although that's totally something I would have anxiety about, and then not sleep because I was worried about oversleeping, and then be so tired that I didn't even hear the alarm in the morning). I'm not going back. I informed my office of this decision a few weeks ago, and now the day is here. The day I was supposed to go back, but did not. The day I guess it becomes really official: I'm a stay-at-home-mom now. 

I've always wanted to be a stay-at-home mom. It's what I saw myself doing when I was a kid and I thought about the great, unknowable future. It's something Joel and I talked about and agreed on long before we were even engaged. It was the plan from the moment that we decided to try to get pregnant.

But then Hannah was born. And those first few weeks... they were awful. Really, truly awful. I feel terrible saying that, but it's the truth. I don't ever want to go through that again. Except, we want more kids, so I guess I will just hope the adjustment period is hardest with the first one. Don't tell me if that's not true. I don't want to know.

I don't know why it was so bad, exactly. Part of it is hormones. Oh, the hormones. You can know that you're feeling like shit because of hormones, but that doesn't make you feel any less shitty in the moment. And then there's the lack of sleep. As a veteran insomniac, I thought I knew a thing or two about lack of sleep. I knew nothing. I can totally understand why sleep deprivation is a method of torture. Despair sets in pretty quickly when you haven't slept for more than two hours in a row for two weeks. And then there's the permanence of it all. Well-wishers kept telling us to "treasure these moments!" and "enjoy every minute!" and all I could think was that we'd made a terrible mistake. And oh, I felt guilty for feeling like that. Raging hormones, intense sleep deprivation, and a crushing sense of guilt and despair. Plus, the crying. The endless crying. And the fact that you spend your entire day feeling like you have absolutely no idea what you're doing. Because you don't.  Yeah, I don't think "baby blues" is a strong enough term. It's right up there with "moodiness" on my list of things that need a better name.

In the midst of those brutal weeks, I also had myself a nice little life crisis. Because all my life I'd thought I wanted to stay at home with my kids and Joel and I had worked really hard for a really long time to put ourselves in a financial position where that would be possible and all of a sudden it turned out maybe I had changed my mind. In fact, I found myself fantasizing about going in to the office, where I wouldn't need to feed anyone but myself, for a few hours. Where no one would be crying for five hours straight every single day.

They were dark days, is what I'm saying. One night I was awake at 4am scrolling through my reader on my phone while Hannah was feeding and I came across this post by Sundry. I started crying (and then quickly stopped myself because I realized that I couldn't get out of bed to blow my nose with a baby attached to my boob). People had been telling us that it was going to get better, but no one had come right out and said that this infant thing just kind of sucked. Conversely, people seemed to actually MISS the newborn stage. Why? I could not figure out what there was to miss and I was terrified that something was wrong with me and I didn't love my baby enough. It was so good to read someone else say what I'd been feeling: that this whole stage kind of blew.

Spoiler alert: it got better. Gradually, but perceptibly. One afternoon about four weeks in, Joel and I took Hannah for a walk in the stroller and I told him I felt like things were getting better every day. "Don't you think things are getting better?" I asked him. "They're getting better because you're feeling better," he answered. He was exhausted and tired and worn out, but he didn't suffer like I did those first few weeks. I don't know if that's because I was the one saddled with breastfeeding, or if it was because I saw an eternity of being home alone with the baby stretching in front of me while he went back to work after a week. Maybe I had mild postpartum depression. I don't know. All I know is it got better, and I am very thankful for that.

Still, quitting my job was harder than I thought. I'd wistfully fantasized about getting pregnant so I could quit my job on a daily basis, back when I hated my job. But I didn't hate this job. I actually liked it quite a bit. I was good at it and it paid fairly well and in the current economy it felt a little bit like madness to walk away from such a good situation. 

Maybe it was madness. I never said I wasn't crazy.

I didn't expect it to be such a hard decision, not when it wasn't really a decision at all. We'd made up our minds about this a long time ago, and maybe that's why it was difficult. I looove to second guess myself, especially under the influence of postpartum hormones and sleep deprivation. But this is what's right for our family -- and truly, that's what we are now, a family -- and trust me, I know how lucky I am to have this as an option.

And I do feel lucky. Two months ago I did not. But those of you who said it would get better were so, so right. It got better. It keeps getting better. And I can't wait.

The One Side

I'm participating in -R-'s Blog Share today. The post below was written by an anonymous blogger and does not have one single mention of boobs or yeast infections thereof.

For a full list of the blogs participating in the Blog Share, check out -R-'s list.

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The One Side:

We used to be friends. We used to talk about everything, made plans to explore our city, went out to dinner, spent weekends and empty weeknights together. We chatted through the day, had similar taste in style and books and travel dreams. Not too long ago, we were practically inseparable. Then there was this really unforgivable thing, things were said that hurt my feelings and I felt they were completely on purpose. I cancelled plans because I didn't want to be hurt again and at the back of my mind I knew that hanging out again would definitely result in my being hurt. I kept myself busy with a couple of big projects, and any time I got stuck in that awkward "what happened to us!?" conversation I blamed my business for my distance. When I starting receiving emails asking the same thing, I continued to blame my schedule and lack of time or energy. I don't know how long it will take before the hint is FINALLY taken! I don't want a friendship. I don't want to talk about it. I just want you to go away!

Only, you don't go away. I still see you all the time and now it is starting to really bother me. I think if I just ignore you it will be better.

After months of clipped conversations, a lack of even elementary friendliness, and my leaving you off invitation lists you still don't seem to get it. You are just so annoyingly persistent in this whole "why can't we be friends" thing. Get it through your head: I. Don't. Want. To. Be. Friends. Ugh. Seriously.

And Then The Other Side:

We used to be friends. We used to talk about everything, made plans to explore our city, went out to dinner, spent weekends and empty weeknights together. We chatted through the day, had similar taste in style and books and travel dreams. Not too long ago, we were practically inseparable. Then I must have done or said something that left feelings terribly hurt and irreparably bruised, and suddenly all that changed. Instead of a friendly attitude, I was met with dismissal and indifference. Instead of making plans I was left out and ignored. I initiated several conversations and sent several emails asking if there was something I had done to cause the change, to see if there was any way I could apologize and make amends. This relationship was a very important one and I hoped that something as silly as an off-handed comment or cranky week was not going to reduce it to nothing. While I was reassured that it was "nothing" and "it's not you, it's me", months went by and things only got worse, more distant, more gossiping behind my back, blatant ignoring and even a bit of what I felt to be pointed, public criticism.

At first I was heartbroken, then I was upset, now I am indifferent. Apparently, it takes me about 10 months to get over a relationship that did not have any closure for me.

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The One Side:

In most blog circles where I hang out--the type of circles that spill over into Real Life and now my blogger friends are some of my best friends and cohorts--I am known for This One Thing. I do The Thing all the time, it's talked about, laughed about, photographed, shared, etc. I could easily introduce myself as "Hi, I'm Blogger, I do The Thing." A few weeks ago another blogger shared a post that mocked The Thing. I was pretty offended, I thought she was being passive-aggressive and deliberately sharing this post to hurt my feelings. But, instead of letting it fester, I emailed her and asked her what had possessed her to share this particular post and how I felt it was a direct attack.

Her response surprised me a little, apparently I had thought that everyone knew about me and The Thing. Turns out, she had no idea. She apologized profusely, told me she had no intention of hurting my feelings and really had never connected me or my use of The Thing to this shared post that openly and blatantly mocked it.

And Then The Other Side:

A few weeks ago a snarky and sarcastic friend of mine posted about how much he hated The Thing. He went to great length to detail the history of The Thing, which he made up in hilarious fashion. I couldn't stop laughing. I immediately shared the post (before Google Reader became Google Plus and sharing things became a hassle) and went on with my day.  Later that evening I received an email from one of the most lovely bloggers I know, she was hurt and sounded offended that I had so passive-aggressively attacked her and her ubiquitous use of The Thing. I was shocked. I had never associated her with The Thing. I stay out of most of the big blogger circles, I don't go to conferences or participate in monthly blogosphere challenges and projects, I just read blogs and try to improve my own storytelling when I write. I was shocked that my sharing of what I thought was a harmless--if a bit snarky--post would incite a few giggles and nothing more. If I had ever associated this blogger with The Thing that was being mocked I would never ever have shared it. I immediately responded with an apology, I assured this blogger that I had no intention of mocking her, that I, in fact, had no idea she and The Thing were linked in bloggerdom. I appreciated her telling me where I had tromped on her toes and giving me the chance to apologize for it and make it right.

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Now, I am one half of both of those stories, and not necessarily always the better half. In writing out these two, different stories I have realized some things about myself and will be making steps to correct any bad behavior on my part. I'm not talking about "bad behavior" like throwing spit wads on the ceiling or spreading rumors or never tipping my waitress. I'm talking about perpetrating the exact passive-aggressive behavior that drives me batty. If I feel like I can complain about passive-aggressive behavior and festering of emotions, then I need to make damn sure that I am not also acting passive-aggressively on festering emotions. Touche, self, touche.

Clear eyes, full hearts, can't lose (to thrush)

What's that? You'd like to hear more about my boobs? WELL YOU'RE IN LUCK! Because I kinda don't have much else going on.

Thrush. Still have it. It is not so painful that I can't breastfeed anymore at least. Oh, it still hurts plenty, but that's not the worst part. The worst part is the boiling of everything that touches my boobs or Hannah's mouth every single time we use them. For twenty minutes. Pacifiers. Bottles. Pump parts. Since I am still feeding every two hours or so and then pumping after each feeding, I pretty much have a witch's brew of plastic boob accessories boiling away on the stove at all times. 

Oh, and then there is the laundry. Because this thrush yeast loves to grow just about anywhere, we're only supposed to be using towels once before washing them. I don't know about you, but normally we are not single use towel people. More like... well, never you mind how often we wash our towels, alright? Because we're MORE than making up for our slovenly ways now. Shower towels, hand towels, dish towels, little hooded frog-shaped baby towels: YOU ARE ALL CONTAMINATED. Also dirty after a single use? Bras. Shirts. Pajamas. Baby blankets. Anything that comes near my boobs or Hannah's face, IN THE WASH. And, friends, that is a lot of wash.

At least we're saving a few loads of laundry a week by not using cloth diapers for a while. You can't use regular diaper cream with cloth diapers and I have no idea if this special thrush diaper cream is cloth-compatible, but I'm guessing not. And I will be damned before I let thrush ruin my preshus Fuzzibunz.

I miss you guys, too. Don't be sad. Someday we'll be together again.

No, thrush, you've already ruined my dignity and my sanity and you will NOT have my cloth diaper collection. So we're in disposables for the time being, and oh, how I hate them. The cheapo Target ones have this chemical stink and the fancy Pampers with the color-changing wetness indicator line cost twice as much. And given my daughter's love of peeing mid-diaper change, making our average diaper's on-butt time about thirty seconds, we are trucking through packs of diapers like nobody's business. If I'd known it was going to be this long I would have gone and bought a pallet of diapers at Costco at the very beginning, but NO, I assumed we'd get treated and get better and that would be that and I didn't want to be stuck with all those extra diapers hanging around the house! I should probably go out and buy a pallet tomorrow, but I still have myself convinced that NOW we are on the brink of a breakthrough and surely another forty pack will see us through to the end of this disaster. I mean, forty diapers! That's got to last at least a month, right? (Answer: not quite.)

When we last left off, I had pried a prescription (diflucan) from my OB's unwilling hands and Hannah had her own medication (nystatin) from the pediatrician, both in oral form and diaper rash cream. I had also bought a shitload of probiotics from both Whole Foods and Amazon when it looked like the diflucan wasn't going to come through. Between the probiotics, the diflucan, and the nystatin, we were well on our way to victory. Two days after starting this multi-front assault I felt SO much better. It really was thrush! And we were really going to survive! Much celebration ensued. 

And then I got worse again. Thrush was like, oh HELL no, and stepped up the game. I got to the end of my diflucan bottle after a week and was still having shooting pain in my boobs whenever they got full. I finagled a refill out of my doctor's office, except they screwed up the dosage and I didn't realize it until after I'd already filled the prescription. So they had to give me ANOTHER prescription and now I have enough diflucan to cook up a REAL good batch of yeast infection meth. Meet me out back by the trailer if ya want some!

In the meantime, I decided to try gentian voilet. Because I like to leave no hippie home-remedy stone unturned. Plus, the internet swore that this dye was actually much more effective than nystatin because it kills the yeast on contact and penetrates mucous membranes and yadda yadda yadda. So what if it stains everything it comes in contact with bright purple, as long as it works!

Except for the part where it didn't actually work. But it sure was fun when Henry the Cat stepped in some and tracked it all over the kitchen!

The bright side, though, and I am telling myself that there is one because I just can't afford not to at this point, is that my supply issues disappeared the minute that I found out I couldn't store any milk. Thrush doesn't die in the freezer. Because why would it? That would just be too easy. So you can't bank up any milk while you're infected or you'll just get reinfected later on when you use that milk. My boobs heard that and were like HEY DID SOMEONE HERE ORDER SOME MILK HERE U GO.

Can you tell which bottle came from the days we were using the gentian voilet? Hint: it's the purple one in the middle.

I am not sure where we go from here, but I am not giving up. This is personal now, and I will not lose. I will fill the bathtub with boiling water and submerge my entire body for twenty minutes if I have to. I will wear the scratchy paper nursing pads and buy disposable diapers forty at a time and wash every towel in the house after a single use like this is the Lady MacBeth Goddamn Hotel. The forty-seven episodes of Friday Night Lights I've watched on Netflix Instant have me feeling a little bit competitive.