And she does.

When I was very young, my mom was single. She was in early 20s, in and out of relationships, melodramatic, and emotional. I adored her.

When we would Drive around in her baby blue Firebird, she would crank up the radio and sing--especially to Journey and to David Bowie's "Space Oddity."  I came to know the words to the songs, and wanted to sing along, too.

"Stop singing!" she would snap, sometimes with great irritation. "I can't hear the song!" 

When I got a little older, she would complain that I couldn't carry a tune and was ruining the song for her. It hurt my feelings tremendously. I remember thinking even way back then that I would let my little girl sing as much as she wanted.

32 years later I have a little girl. A mini-me. And sing she does.

She stands in the yard and sings joyfully at the top of her lungs. She sings heartfelt, original lyrics with great passion into a microphone in the middle of the living room. She sings "Skin-a-marinkey-dinky-dink" from the backseat as we are driving around town with the windows rolled down. She sings lovingly to her Blue Blankey.

Unfortunately she has my voice and can't carry a tune in a bucket, but I love complete lack of self-consciousness and pure joy when she sings.

On lovies

Sophie: I put Blue Blankey in my mouth. I go to hospital and doctor have to take it out of me and I have Blue Blankey again.

I realized she was describing the extraction of Blue Blankey from her surgically.

Amie: Why would you put Blue Blankey in your mouth?

Sophie: I just like him a lot.

Letter--week of 2/16/15

Dear K.,

Thank you so much for checking on the Wellness Center. I will give them a call. At our appointment last Friday, I promised to email you on Fridays to give you updates. I certainly intend to keep that up, and I am grateful for your willingness to listen.

I didn’t do very many things right this week, but I’m trying to focus on what I DID do right. I cooked actual meals for my family for dinner 3 of the 4 week nights we’ve had so far this week. Like actual made-from-scratch dinners. Not gourmet, but nourishing. That is unheard of for me! I mostly cook meals on the weekends when I am more relaxed and less rushed. There is time for chopping and sauteeing on the weekends. Week nights to date have involved simple, healthy meals for my daughter and then whatever her dad or I grab after she goes to bed—usually leftover pizza he brings home from work. All the cooking this week required a bit of planning and prepping ahead, but I am really incredibly proud of this. It is part of an effort to change the way I think about taking care of myself.

When I am lonely or sad or frustrated or scared, the way that has felt best to take care of myself has been to literally fill myself up. After the rape, I began filling myself up double-time. Which is how I got to where I am today.

I know that things need to change. I want to be an example for my daughter. I want her to love herself much more than I ever did or have loved myself, and I want to be around for her as long as possible.

While texting with a friend last weekend, I mentioned that I was planning to buy a FitBit so that I could focus on increasing my number of steps. A couple days later she emailed me because she had signed up for a new bank account, and they gave her a free FitBit for joining. She is mailing it to me as a gift to help me get started, apologizing that lime green was the only choice they offered. I was absolutely thrilled! I will happily wear that lime green thing on my person. The one she is sending is slightly fancier version of the most basic model I planned to order for myself. It should be here soon. I like to think the universe is trying to help me along here.

Thank you for listening. I hope you have a wonderful day. It’s hard to keep your chin up in these temperatures, but Daylight Savings Time begins March 8, and spring is not too far away. We’re almost there.

Best,

A.

My Room 101 fear/A letter to Sophie

A friend once told me a story about how her father would prepare she and her younger sister for someone with a weapon to attack them unexpectedly.  While sitting in a restaurant waiting for their order to arrive, he might say to them, "A man with a gun busts in through the front door of this restaurant.  What do you do?  Go!" She had an odd childhood, but she became adept at quickly spotting the closest exits and locating objects in her vicinity that could be used as makeshift weapons.

There's a great deal of evidence that mentally rehearsing the details of the way you want something to happen greatly increases the likelihood of the desired outcome.  And I find myself doing this.

Every parent I've ever talked to knows the fear.  THAT fear.  You can take away anything and everyone else, lord, but don't take my baby.  I can't be in a world in which she is not.  I thought I was the only one whose thoughts and worries about it bordered on psychotic at times, but another friend recently admitted she was terrified to drive her daughter anywhere in the car because ..."what if I crash the car and hurt her?  I worry so much that it makes me physically ill sometimes."

One of the things I fear the most is kidnapping.  I am terrified of it in every single nook and cranny of the world--even in my own house.  Someone could take you right out of your bedroom!  We can be at the playground and you run off and play on the other side of a mammoth wooden play structure with 100 different places to climb and hide.  We can be at the library and you walk around to the other side of the bookshelf that I am on. 

My first thought:  I can't see her.

My second thought:  It's okay.  She's just over there.  Safe.

My third thought:  Some pervert could be just on the other side of a bookshelf waiting for a chance.  He might have been hanging around for hours.  But if he succeeds just once it's worth it to him.

My fourth thought:  This is the children's section of the Morgantown Public Library fer chrissakes.  She's probably okay to wander around it for at least a couple of minutes.

I might position myself strategically between the two exits of the fenced-in playground and feel assured for a moment while you're playing out of sight.  But just a heartbeat too long and I have to find you.  I physically have to.  I am incapable of letting down my guard.  The moment I do, the worst will happen.  I just know it.

Maybe I am overly protective; I honestly can't tell.  What I do know is this:  An old man tried to lure me into the trunk of his car once at Teter Lake while my stepdad was fishing.  I hid inside a pine tree and watched him until he finally gave up and left.  Even then I knew what men did to little girls; this was not my first rodeo.

That was around 1984.  Things in 2014 are exponentially more fucked up.  So I cope with my anxiety by mentally rehearsing.  Kidnapping is what I practice for the most.

I remind myself of what my priorities should be across any potential setting:  get license plate number; note physical description of suspect(s)--god forbid there's more than one; have current picture of Sophie immediately ready to show to anyone who will look at it; remember exactly what she's wearing--what kind of Band-Aids is she wearing today?  Was that scrape on her left knee or right? Sometimes I mentally freeze the scenario in my mind and study all the people in my mental image's vicinity.  What did they witness? 

Once police action is under way, Who should I call first?  Her father, of course.  I remember that I can never remember his cell phone number.  I can recall the phone numbers of my 1st and 2nd grade boyfriends, but I cannot remember the phone number of my partner.  The father of my child.  Then call my mom and dad.  Does my mom have my dad's phone number?  I have to be sure she does.  That way I only have to make one call.  Then they will let everyone else know.  I have to practice it all in my head to increase my confidence of actually being able to react quickly and rationally if the real situation were to come true.  There aren't very many days when I don't think about it at least a little.

Yesterday evening in my hometown--40 miles away and in a town with less crime than my current one--two young men were spotted in multiple places trying to lure little girls to their car.  I practice how I will teach you to protect yourself.  Maybe it would be a good idea to test you--get a friend who is unknown to you try to pick you up.  Maybe around age 6 or 7?  I can't tell if that's totally messed up or not. I don't want you to be fearful and timid in the world; just savvy and alert.  If the ability to spot a sticker of any kind from a mile away is any indication, you don't miss much. 

Worrying about protecting you has become an outlet for my previously free-floating hypervigilance.  I always think that when you are a little older I will worry less.  But I know that's not true.  I may worry about a different variety of things, but the worries themselves will only wear ruts deeper into my psyche.  It is a constant effort to keep them in check.

Through rose-colored glasses

I rounded the corner from the produce section to the meat department by way of the deli counter. I remember because I made a conscious effort not to buy any pimento cheese spread and 99 times out of 100 I manage not to. Anyway, I spotted the bag full of tiny plastic cups--marked "Party Cups"--on display at the end of a rack next to the booze room. I immediately thought, "Sophie would love these!" since she is partial to all tiny and/or colorful things, particularly things capable of pouring. I often bring her some small item from the grocery store (a sheet of stickers, a ripe avocado, a fruit she's never tried--and here it is more like 1 time out of 3 in the managing not to), and after doing a quick mental calculation of the ratio between the odds of injury and/or mess and the odds of fun and possibly educational in some fashion, I grabbed them.

They thrilled her, of course, and she immediately began stacking and unstacking them and admiring them in the sunlight.

Ivan walked into the living room drying his hands on a little green towel and observed, "Shot glasses."

"What?" I was confused.

"Shot glasses," he said again. "You bought our daughter shot glasses. I mean, Party Cups? Come on!"

I hadn't really thought of them that way, but, truly, I'm not sure I can recall having any OTHER kind of party with cups this size. Though there are no doubt an infinite number of ways to do so.

Something in the universe wants me to buy pasta.

Yesterday when Ivan came home from work, he said, "I have to show you what Monica gave me."

"Who is Monica?"  I asked.

"A co-worker," he responded, "and a--what do you call it?--'couponer.'"

He proudly brought over five coupons for Barilla brand pasta and warned, "They're only good for a couple more days.  At Giant Eagle."  Apparently if we were to buy any two boxes of Barilla pasta, we could save $0.55.  Five times.

I didn't really take him that seriously.  I vaguely wondered how this had come about (Did she bring them specifically thinking he would want them?  Did she have them and he expressed interest?), but truthfully was tired from a long day and it didn't seem important.

"So should I go to the store and get them?" he asked hopefully.

"What?  No.  Ten boxes of pasta?  Are you insane?"

He seemed surprised.  I continued, "Besides, I guarantee the store brand we buy for a dollar and like just fine is cheaper at full price than Barilla pasta is with these coupons.  In fact, I would put money on it.  Which seems ironic."

"Oh, okay," he said with a hint of disappointment.  "I just thought it would save us some money."

Looking back, I think I was not very charitable in that conversation.  His financial habits have often been a point of contention in our relationship.  I'm the one always suggesting ways to save money.  I'm the one giving lectures about cutting back, doing without.  And while it seemed strange to want to buy ten boxes of pasta when we only eat it on occasion and out-of-the blue to bring home coupons, this was a genuine attempt on his part to please me in that way.  I should have been kinder.

Sophia, however, was excited to come across the little stack of colorful papers that were now on the end table.  She carried them around the rest of the evening, and added them to her collection of colorful paint swatches that she like likes to pull in and out of the little drawer of her table and the microwave of her play kitchen.  At bedtime, she grabbed her favorite two blankets and two stuffed rabbits, and then rushed over to scoop up the coupons.  She often takes random things to bed with her.  Since she's so good about her bedtime and can chatter to herself and play happily for as much as an hour if she's not yet tired, I didn't think anything of it.

This morning she brought all the coupons back down to the living room with her, and when it was time to go she grabbed those, too.  "Honey, why don't you put the coupons on the table and then you can play with them again when we get home?"  I suggested.  She smiled at me and carried them over and tucked them into the little side pocket of the bag I was carrying.  I laughed.

So.  Here I am.  With the capacity to purchase 10 boxes of discounted pasta, sitting at my desk.

A tiny, stoic sentry

At the end of every day, when I crawl into bed next to my husband, there is a part of me that stays alert, a little part I save just for my daughters in case they need it -- a tiny, stoic sentry who never sleeps and guards her post alone.

- Kate Rope, The Bittersweet Loneliness of Motherhood

Dear Frijole/Undertoad Crossover

Dear Frijole,

As I write this, you are 8 1/2 months old.  You've now been out of me longer than you were in me.

You have five teeth at various stages of coming in.  You love avocados, hummus, cheese, yogurt, and yams.  You love to dance, and you and your father are the only people in the entire world who like the sound of my singing.  "Yo Gabba Gabba" and "Dora the Explorer" get you excited, and you lick the TV screen to show your appreciation of the characters you like best.  When you take a bath in the evenings you love to play with your pink rubber duck.  Always as we are finishing your bath, we say goodbye to Duckie and he quacks and "kisses" you on the cheeks and nose and your smile gets so huge.  Sometimes you murmur "mama" in your sleep and it does something in my chest that I can't quite describe.

Some of my favorite moments of the day come when you wake up.  You sit up with blanket marks on your face and sleepily rub your eyes.  You'll play quietly with your animals for a few minutes:  touching them, patting them, biting them, burying your face in them.  When you notice me watching you, you break into a grin and eagerly stand up in your crib to reach for me.  I hug and nuzzle you and take in your baby smell.  I could pick you out of hundreds of babies just by smelling you.

You are--many times over--the most beautiful thing in my world.  I can barely believe that I am lucky enough to have such a beautiful, sweet, playful, inquisitive little girl to love.  The responsibility of guiding you into becoming a confident, courageous, compassionate young woman is a daunting one, but one that I take very seriously.  

I can't look at newborn pictures of you without weeping, because every day takes you further away from being my tiny baby.  It is bittersweet to be leaving your babyhood behind, but it is amazing to watch you learn and grow and change.  You are my greatest joy.

Love,

Mama

A tube is a tube is a tube

A: Can you run out and get me a tube of Orajel? We're almost out and I'm starting to freak out.

I: (picks up a tube of Desitin diaper cream) Can't you just use this?

A: That's for her butt.

I: (Looks at tube again, shrugs) Okay.

Cut short

Ivan and Sophia drove to San Jose to spend two nights at his mother's house.  Sophie's "nana."  I stayed behind.  The prospect of a couple nights to myself to sleep and do nothing were nearly too much to contemplate, and I looked forward to it for days.

I cried when they left yesterday. As Ivan was loading the car I sat and talked to Sophie. As I told her how much mama would miss her, the images flashed through my mind. The wrecked cars, the flashing lights and sirens. The passersby who stare at the wreckage in the median as they pass, eager to get where they're going. The phone call that would take them both away from me.

But I gritted my teeth and persevered!  I had packed her bags.  I had packed her meals.  I knew she was in good hands.

And the first night was blissful.  After several hours in the company of a friend and a plethora of champagne. I drifted in and out of sleep at will for hours and hours.  I haven't gotten dressed.  Haven't cleaned or put anything away.  Hell, I'm drinking the rest of last night's champagne out of the bottle next to my cup of coffee.  

What?

Anyway, Sophia's father, whom I'm too peeved at to call by name this very second, called. "Do you miss me?" he asked. 

"I miss you both," I replied, because she is really the one I miss and I was trying to be diplomatic.

"Well, great! Because we are coming home tonight!" he exclaimed, waiting for my display of enthusiasm.

I felt tricked. My voice was flat. "You're what?"

"Tonight. We're coming back tonight. We should be there by 8:00."

"Don't come back tonight." My voice was quiet and near pleading.

"Well, now I'm DEFINITELY coming back tonight," he said grouchily.

Turns out that they are having a lovely visit and Sophia is being a model child, but she woke him up at 4:30 am. He changed and fed her, but then she WANTED TO PLAY. Why would a baby want to play at 4:30 in the morning? Ivan asked himself. And if I have to stay up with her, how am I going to get any sleep? His poor sleep deprived brain wondered. When she woke him up again at 7 am, he suddenly realized the answer. Take her home to her mother! Ivan can't possibly risk not getting 8 hours of sleep a second night in a row--and besides, that lazy bitch already had her night off!--so we drive back home to Concord so mama can take over and papa can go to bed.

Voila! Problem solved.

Be careful what you wish for.

On Monday, Ivan and I were having a bad day.  We've faced some pretty serious financial setbacks lately, and the stress of them added to having a new baby is really...hard.

I have been considering whether I should leave San Francisco and return to the east coast.  The toughest thing about it is that Sophia and I would be returning alone.  Ivan would not be joining us.  But other than him, there really is very little left for me here.  Most of my friends are gone.  I have been feeling terribly alone and lonely and isolated for quite some time.  And the cost of living that I managed to keep up with before is killing me.

When I look at how my life has changed in the last 3 1/2 years for the worse, it all leads back to Sept. 18, 2008 for me.  I still can't believe how one man could take so much from me in one night:  my power, my self-confidence and self-worth.  I just can't find them again.  And finding them again while struggling for basic survival at the moment is proving nearly impossible.

I read a Postsecret postcard awhile back that made me weep in sharp recognition:

Anyway, back to the bad day on Monday.  I was anxious and distraught and afraid.  I sat outside on the front steps while Ivan was inside with his sister and Sophia napped in the bedroom.  I closed my eyes and wished for something to happen to provide me with clarity.  I was trying to figure out how I could leave the person I love--and my baby's father--in order to try to make a new life somewhere else.  And to make it even worse, I would not be leaving from a place of strength.  I would be leaving because I am fucking broken.

In my irrationality, I imagined that a natural disaster like an earthquake would absolutely fucking shake things up--help me put them in perspective.  Despite feeling a little superstitious, I wished for it to happen.  I closed my eyes and wished it intensely.  I felt desperate for anything that might help me make this gut-wrenching decision.

Ten minutes later I was inside changing the baby and arguing with Ivan again when the oven caught on fire in the kitchen.  Ivan and Natasha tried to put it out, but it only got worse.  I heard Natasha say from the kitchen, "Get out.  Get out now!" and I grabbed my baby and we were the first ones out the door.  The smoke filled up the house so fast that we couldn't even get a baby blanket.  Natasha was on the phone with 911 while smoke billowed out of our windows.  Approaching sirens screamed while I curled myself around Sophia to keep her warm and covered her ears from the noise.

I felt guilty for the wish I'd made.

I sat on a nearby stoop while a crowd of neighbors and other passersby gathered and stared.  Three fire trucks blocked the intersection and the firemen rushed in.  I felt miserable and afraid as I held onto Sophia and crooned softly to her.  In my mind I was asking myself:  "Is this it? Is it time to go?"  I saw Ivan looking at me and knew that he knew what I was thinking.

We are now safe and back in our house.  There was minimal damage, but the damage we did have has only added to our financial burden.  I'm not sure that the fire provided the clarity I wished for, but it did sink me a little further.

I feel weak.  And terrified.  And terribly alone.  Where is the girl who arrived here in 2005 with such courage and hope and a 'fuck-it-I'll-make-it-work-somehow' attitude?  I need her now.

May the 4th be with you/go fuck itself

Today everything feels like a bit too much.

I started off surprisingly chipper given my three hours of sleep, but I have been sinking into exhaustion since then.  I just can't seem to get caught up.  Everything is piling up around me and everyone else needs attention and I am so sleepy that I just want to  curl into a ball with my baby and sleep for 500 years.

Flushed

My name is Sophia and I hog the bed.

Baby shower

Yesterday, my friends Diana and Tamara hosted a baby shower for Sophie and me down in San Carlos.  I picked the guest list that consisted of my very favorite former coworkers from The Company That Shall Never Be Named.

(Too bad I didn't take this picture until later into the party.)

Because they are kind and pay attention to those kinds of details, two of my very favorite beverages were served:  sangria and lemonade.  I partook in multiple glasses of both, but I had to restrain myself from the sangria--I had to drive my baby home!  Sometimes being a grown-up is hard.

It felt nice to put on a little makeup and actual clothes without baby spit-up and talk to adults.  Plus, there were beautiful gifts (including a baby swing that I hear I will drop down to my knees and thank God for!), a lovely lunch, and delicious cupcakes.

The party girl pretty much slept through the entire thing.

(She has her mama's long toes!)

I was especially pleased to see my long-lost buddy Ruben.  We used to have lunch, take walks, and sneak off for sangria together at one of the Mexican restaurants in downtown Los Altos during workdays at The Company That Shall Never Be Named.  I would talk his ear off, sing songs, and re-enact dramatic conversations for him while he listened and occasionally gave me strange looks.  Once he sat with me in my car and quietly held my hand during a panic attack, and I will never forget that.

It was amazing and way overdue to spend an afternoon surrounded by friends.  I felt loved.  Now I'm going to curl up with that feeling and let it tie me over.

My Mini-Me

Moment by moment

I'm finding that as a new mom (to a pretty quiet, relatively low maintenance baby, I should add) there is plenty of time to think what with being up at all hours of the night.  Being an anxious person, my brain often translates this into "plenty of time to worry."  In my hands has been entrusted an enormous responsibility.  And the future is so big and scary and unknown!

I have been finding that the best way to cope is to keep my mind on the immediate, practical things of which there seems to be no shortage.  Hour by hour I keep my focus on the next diaper change, the next feeding.  Day by day I mark time by how many diapers I have left, how much formula has been consumed, and whether there is enough clean laundry.  Longer periods of time are tracked in terms of well-baby doctor appointments.

This mental system is working well.  I might be tired, but I'm waking up with a smile most mornings and doting on my daughter around the clock.  The big, scary unknowns are mostly kept at bay with the exception of one area into which my mind has taken to wandering.

Mortality.

Ugh!  So heavy!  Even for this angsty blog!

But I find that my well-being has taken on all these new implications.  It's not just me anymore.  Every decision has new meaning.  Every dollar I spend has taken on new importance:  is this really the best use of the money?  Will there still be plenty for diapers and formula?  (And now we've come full circle!)

I continue writing to my daughter in her "Dear Frijole" blog.  I lovingly fill out and paste pictures into her baby book.  Most of me wants to capture her childhood as thoroughly as possible, but the darker parts of me whisper, "Just in case...just in case...so she'll know..."  I want to beg members of my family that if something happens to me, please let her know!  Tell her how much I loved her and who I was and how much I wanted her!  But I say nothing because that sounds crazy.  Or fatalistic.  Or [gulp] like foreshadowing?

Enough of that.

She won't remember the moments, of course, but I try to pour immeasurable tenderness into all of my attentions to Sophia.  I stroke her arms and legs and silky hair.  I rub her back.  I kiss her kicking little feet and dimpled hands and chubby cheeks.  Every morning around 5am you can find us snuggled on the couch under a big cozy blanket and these are some of my favorite moments of the whole day.  Everyone is asleep, the house is silent, and we are safe, warm, and together.  I block out the big, scary unknowns with that fact and for an hour or two, at least, that is all there is and that is enough.

(Taken this morning.)

Saying good-bye to breastfeeding

Nine days ago I became a new mother.

About this I am filled with happiness and fear and excitement and exhaustion and weepiness, but also with an emotion I did not expect:  intense grief.  Regarding breastfeeding.  Or my lack thereof.  Let me explain.

I assumed I would breastfeed my daughter, Sophia.  I've assumed since I was a little girl that I would one day do this for my child when I saw my mother breastfeeding my brothers.  I had visions of my child emerging from my body, wet and wriggling, and being placed upon my ample breasts already overflowing with milk and beginning to eat.  My motherly instincts would kick in as I held her to me and basked in the glow of fertility and womanhood. My assumption was so entrenched that while stocking up on baby necessities in the last few months, I didn't bother buying formula and a bunch of bottles:  my boobs would supply what I needed!  Baby feeding supplies?  Check and check. 

I heard people talk about how difficult breastfeeding is and I thought I had adequately braced myself.  I was ready to be patient with both my body and with Sophia.  I was ready for sore nipples and purchased lanolin ointment in preparation.  I bought expensive nursing bras after test-driving a couple.   I thought I was reasonably ready for the challenge.

I was wrong.

The first time I put my baby to my breast, I felt anxious anticipation.  Within a few seconds Sophia had figured out what was going on, and her little lips had eagerly enveloped my nipple and she began to suck.  I was thrilled!  My baby knew what to do, and soon when my milk "came in" from wherever it mysteriously was, I would be able to supply her with the food she needed.  Awash in motherly competence, I beamed with pride as the nurses in the Intensive Care Nursery (ICN) at UCSF exclaimed over how good her latch was and how well she sucked.

"You don't have to worry about those two," Nurse Sue knowlingly informed other nurses who worked in the ICN, "they're as good as anyone I've ever seen at breastfeeding."

Well, of course my child would figure it out quickly. She was her mother's daughter!  She was smart, and it was a sign of the overachievement to come.  She would be walking at 9 months and reading at  3 1/2 years.

These positive feelings lasted for approximately 48 hours.  While I was reflecting upon my good fortune that breastfeeding was practically in the bag, Sophia was being fed formula in a bottle with a nipple that was much easier to suck from and much more productive than mine and had grown impatient with our little suck-on-mom's-nipples-for-half-an-hour-to-get-colustrum-and-help-her-milk-come-in-BEFORE-you-can-eat song and dance.  Soon she preferred to go straight for the bottle when she was hungry.

Who could blame her?

But it felt awful.  At first I just felt a little let down and disappointed that my milk hadn't come in as quickly as I'd hoped.  But after a couple of feeding sessions' worth of watching my baby repeatedly make faces when she realized which nipple she was being given, I started to get upset in earnest.

I was reassured repeatedly by nurses.  This was not abnormal at all, they told me.  C-sections slow down the process, it was explained.  Premature babies may also slow down the process, I heard.  Just give it a couple more days and it will happen, I was promised.

A lactation consultant dropped by my room.  An electric, hospital-grade breast pump was delivered to my bedside so that I could get down to the business of hooking myself up to the machine and pumping every three hours.  The ICN pediatrician stopped by to offer breastfeeding tips.  Each time the nurses' shifts changed, I got advice from all of them all over again.  In front of a small, concerned audience, I was instructed how to "express" milk from my breasts and then subsequently failed to do so repeatedly.  Everyone around me was "Rah-rah-rah!" on the breastfeeding bandwagon and I felt left behind.

While everyone meant well, what it ultimately meant was that my every three hours feedings with my baby began to feel like work.  Work at which I was failing!  Along with other exhausted new mothers on the 15th floor, I shuffled zombie-like in my gown to the nursery around the clock, but I began to hate it. It was stressful and goal-oriented and frustrating.  When the telephone rang in my hospital room or my alarm went off signaling that it was time for the baby to eat, I groaned and cursed.

I felt dread about feeding my baby, and I started to cry every time it was time to feed her.

When I managed to survive another feeding, I went back to my room and fell into bed with relief, only to immediately begin eyeing the clock out of anxiety for the next feeding.

Eventually, my colustrum stopped showing up when I pumped.  It felt like I'd officially failed.  "Your negative emotions are probably affecting the process," I was informed.

Well, hell.

These feelings were not okay with me.  I started electing to skip the attempts to get my baby to suck from my own breasts and began going straight to the bottle when I fed her.  I wanted back the moments we had previously shared when Sophie had her belly full and we would rock in the chair together and snuggle.  My nursery breastfeeding boycott was very controversial.  Nurses confronted me while I was feeding my baby about why I was doing what I was doing.  Had I thought about the implications of this decision?  Her doctor came to talk to me.  A second and much-lauded lactation consultant was sent in to get to the bottom of my situation.  A social worker came to have a little heart-to-heart with me about my feelings.  One nurse took it upon herself to call the lactation specialists and inform them whenever I fed the baby without putting her to my breast so that they could call me on the phone in my room later and ask my why I hadn't put the baby to my breast at her last feeding--why was I stopping breastfeeding?  I felt spied on and harassed, and that was the last straw. 

I desperately wanted to take my baby and go home and away from the eyes of all the doctors and nurses and the other mothers breastfeeding in the nursery.  An identical electric breast pump was scheduled to be delivered to my house the day I brought the baby home.  I looked forward to my own private attempts to feed and bond with my baby.  Then an address mix-up and the approaching weekend delayed the delivery by several days.  Now, even my hopes of succeeding at home were fading away, and I felt miserable.  I cried my first night home when I desperately needed sleep to be ready for her next feeding and changing.  "I'm not going to be able to breastfeed our baby," I moaned to my partner.  "I feel like a bad mom."

The next morning Aurelia, a home care nurse, arrived at my house to give Sophie her first check-up.  She was kind and soft-spoken and filled with questions and advice.  I knew in advance I couldn't bear another conversation about breastfeeding, and I prepared to put on a brave face about how it was going.  We sat down in the living room with Sophie and my mother, and Aurelia got down to business.  "I'm hear to check the baby, of course," she said, "but I really want to start with asking you about breastfeeding."  I broke down into a weeping mess and blubbered out the whole situation to her.  Fat, hot tears rolled down my cheeks and I felt embarrassed, but there was nothing I can do to control them.  It was heart-wrenching.

Aurelia was caring and empathic.  She listened to my story and said, "You are not required to do this.  You did your best.  You gave your baby the colustrum that would give her the antibodies that she needed.  That's the most important part.  They are very pro-breastfeeding at UCSF and there's a lot of pressure.  You can't beat yourself up about this. You know, not breastfeeding is a choice, too."

This was a new idea.  I wasn't sure I liked it.

Aurelia kindly helped me by making the phone call necessary to track dow the wayward breastpump that was supposed to be delivered to me, and assured me that it was not too late.  "Your hormones are very active for a couple of weeks.  If you decide you want to breastfeed, there's still time."  My relief was incredible.

Today while laying with Sophia on the bed, one of the lactation consultants from UCSF called me to check in.  I felt my stress level rise immediately.  How was breastfeeding going? she wanted to know.  Have you tried this?  And that?  What about this combined with that?  Predictably, I started to cry.  I explained to her that I felt that the pressure around breastfeeding was affecting my bonding with Sophia.  She softened. 

"Honey, if it doesn't work it's not the end of the world.  She will still grow into a wonderful young woman.  She will still be happy and healthy.  When you feed her formula, hold her skin-to-skin.  Your baby deserves to feel you against her--she deserves that contact and so do you.  Stroke her arms and hands.  It will be fine.  If breastfeeding is not working then don't let it affect your relationship."

I was surprised by what I was hearing, but grateful.  This active breastfeeding proponent was assuring me it was okay if it didn't work for me, and that I had nothing to feel guilty about.  I started letting myself off the hook.

Tomorrow the breast pump is supposed to be delivered to my house.  I still plan to work on breastfeeding at my own pace.  I don't know if it will work.  It may have already slipped through my fingers, and that still hurts me.  But I no longer feel like a bad mom.