... Moments, that is. Mornings in my house are usually the most unpleasant part of my day.
My youngest doesn't sleep. And it's gotten much worse since last weekend's time change. Not only is he sleeping less, he's tossing and turning constantly. And since we share a family bed, my husband and I are coming away with bruises (although my third shift working husband has fewer bruises than I do since he's only home with us two nights a week). And while I set my alarm to go off at 6:30am, for the past week, we've been unusually rushed to get him from bed to bus because this exhausted Mommy is over-sleeping. Which turns me into a Medusa-haired lunatic. Not good for me or the kiddos.
My oldest is Autistic. His top speed is glacial unless he knows he's about to watch TV or play video games. Then, he's Speedy Gonzales.
During the week, I usually I have to wake my oldest up. (Let it be a weekend morning and he's up before the sun to watch cartoons. But during the week, he's tired and it's just so hard to get up so early!) He slowly stumbles into the kitchen, over-exaggerating as he yawns and rubs his eyes. He walks back and forth through the kitchen, getting one thing at a time to get his breakfast ready. Trip One is where he carries his cereal bowl to the table. His empty cereal bowl. The next trip is to get a spoon. Which is in the drawer directly below the bowls. He bypasses the pantry (where his cereal is), to take that spoon to the table. Trip number three is when he gets his cereal. Trips four and five are when he walks back and forth to get his milk and the orange juice. He turns on the light above the kitchen table on trip six. Because he's plodding along, this routine can take upwards of ten minutes. Because the whole time he's walking, he interrupts himself by asking, "Hey Mom, did you know...." and various random questions. ("What if I could touch an animal and turn into that animal on the outside, but I would still be me on the inside?") After he finishes eating, he puts it all away. Trip. By. Trip. Then he does the same back and forth shuffle getting through getting dressed (he wears a uniform for school) and also for completing his morning routine (brushing teeth and hair, washing his face and putting on deodorant.). He also has to take the weather report into school with him (his school uses a newscast system to deliver the morning announcements and he's the "weather man"). If I let him do it his way, it would take hours to get it all done.
But now that I'm a stay-at-home Mommy, I'm retraining him to get it all done more efficiently. He has special dietary needs, so I've always handled packing his lunch. But in the last couple weeks, I took over his breakfast routine, started setting time limits for completing his other morning duties and made him start setting out his school uniform the day before to make mornings smoother.
This morning, it all fell into place. Baby #2 woke up about 4:30am and I finally got him back to sleep at 6am. The next thing I knew, my hubby was waking me up. By the time I made it into the kitchen, my son was already up with his breakfast poured the way he'd been shown. He moved swiftly through everything he needed to get done and at 7:30 when I went to get him for the bus, he was laying on his bed (it was made!) quietly reading.
Waiting for the bus presents its own issues. He gets picked up at the end of our driveway and so on cold mornings like we had today, he waits inside the storm door. He can see the bus picking up kids at the previous stop, so he can wait in the warm house and still make it to the end of the driveway before the bus. Normally, I have to continuously remind him to watch for the bus. He wants to talk, play with his brother (or the dog, or the cat), watch TV, anything other than look down the street.
But this morning, he was on his game. He was carrying on a conversation about what he needed to do at school that day - he's getting out a few days early for spring break because he's traveling with his dad's family to DC and some of his teachers will be assigning homework and in class tests. Also, he's starting Social Skills Therapy after school today, so instead of riding the bus like he normally does, I'll be picking him up after school. (Any change in routine causes unexpected behaviors, so I talk about what he needs to do until he gives me that "look" and rolls his eyes that says, "yeah, mom, I GET it!") While we were talking, he kept watching out the window for the bus. As soon as he saw it, he said, "Op, Mom, gotta go. Bus is here."
As I watched him get on the bus, I simply enjoyed how easy this morning had been. I know it may not be this easy tomorrow. And I know when he comes back from DC, it'll take weeks for him to settle back down (his dad rarely has him, and has no problem throwing his routines out the door and doing it any old way he wants.). So, while today may have been an island of peace in an otherwise tumultuous life, I'll take it. As any parent of an Autistic child will tell you, after weeks and months of mind-numbing reminders when whatever you're doing finally takes, it's a beautiful thing.
Today I'll relish how proud I am of my son. That in less than thirty minutes' time, he went from covers to completely ready for school. And he did it all by himself.
Happy Raising.
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
The battle of the boob
Did you nurse your pumpkins? Did you get flack for it?
It's sad, isn't it, with all the problems we have in this world that a parent's choice in feeding their child is such a controversial issue? (Can we focus on feeding the hungry instead, please?) How do you think our ancestors got here? Their moms (or a wet nurse their parents employed) breast-fed them! They didn't have processed formula way back then. And I mean WAY back - before electricity, indoor plumbing, or even motorized transportation! Before breasts became sexualized, they had a practical purpose.
I chose to nurse mine. Aside from that fact that it was a personal choice, I loved the fact that it was free, always ready and I didn't need to buy all the extra stuff required to bottle feed (all the different nipples for each stage, bottles, brushes - and oh, that expensive formula!). Breast-feeding is not instinctual and it is not easy to begin. (My oldest was much easier to nurse than my youngest, but my youngest has a much stronger attachment to nursing than his big brother did. And if you're really determined to nurse and you can't get help at home, contact your local hospital. If they don't have someone on their maternity staff they can direct you to, they'll be at least a good starting point for someone who can.) But once you get the hang of it, it's so easy. The only thing you need to take with you, is a blanket or cover of some sort to shield your nursing pumpkin from the shaming (and sometimes pervy) eyes of passers-by. (And at some point, you will either be scolded by an old lady for "doing that in public" or leered at by some creeper in the next booth at Chick-Fil-A.)
My first husband was staunchly against my breast-feeding our son. He said that it would ruin my 34C's and he hadn't signed up for that (yeah, he was a real gem). He wasn't the opposition I was prepared for. Neither was my mom who told me that women in our family weren't able to do that so I should just go ahead and buy the bottles and formula. Luckily for me, my girl-friends, my mother-in-law and my pediatrician were in my corner. And when we did turn to supplementing with formula, it wasn't a decision I tormented myself with. I was working and the provider we chose told us our hungry little boy was devouring the pumped milk supply faster than I could replenish it. He was four months old - too young to switch over to regular food. I continued to nurse at night and on the weekends for the next five months and he switched easily between boob and bottle. And when he decided he was done nursing, neither of us looked back with regret.
While my second husband may not have been 100% on board, he said he was willing to give it a try when our son was born last summer. (He never once mentioned the ruination of my boobs.) I could tell he missed getting to feed the baby. But when I got up in the middle of the night, so did he. He changed the baby's diaper, brought me ice water and rubbed my back. Then when baby was full, he burped him and snuggled him back to sleep. This was the support I'd missed out on the first time. And he's been equally supportive when I need to nurse the baby out in public. Whether he's shielding us from prying eyes or assisting us into the car for more private nursing (sometimes the baby just will not tolerate a cover), whatever we need to get the job done, he's our man! (While my oldest embraced the bottle eagerly, my youngest does not. He will drink water from a "trainer" cup, but he knows where the milk comes and that's the only way he'll take it!)
So imagine my surprise when I went into the doctor for my six week post-partum check up. I'm sure this was motivated by a drug rep (those sneaky little buggars really do make the medical decisions for us now, don't they), but the girl checking me out after my appointment asked me what type of formula we were using for my pumpkin. When I told her I was nursing, she said, "Well, when your milk starts drying up just let us know and we can provide you with the right formula to supplement so he gets all the vitamins that your breast milk doesn't contain." I think I was able to turn around before I had to pick my jaw up off the floor. I've had to make several trips to the doctor since then and she still says the same thing to me. Every. Single. Time. You'd think after 9 months (NINE!!), that she'd stop asking. I've got my response down pat now and it comes out with practiced precision. "He's still nursing thank you we're weaning him at a year and putting him straight onto cow's milk." Now, if he was failing to thrive - not gaining weight, not hitting his milestones, lethargic - I wouldn't have hesitated to switch him to formula. I'm not so attached to nursing that I would put him in danger. And even though we did have some digestive issues (projectile vomiting which our pediatrician diagnosed as GERD), we worked through them while continuing to nurse (a couple months on baby Zantac and he was just fine). I can't stress enough finding a pediatrician who's on your side. This is the doctor to trust with your baby's life and they should - if not agree with you 100% - listen to your requests and work with you through any complications that pop up.
The lines are drawn and the teams are picked. Whether you're Pro-Boob, or Pro-Bottle, you should be allowed to feed your baby without fear of humiliation - or in some extreme cases, jail time. Whether you're defending your decision to you friends, family, the community at large or -gasp- a medical professional, the point is to trust yourself. You're the one who's with him day in and day out. You know when something isn't right, and conversely, when it is.
Happy Raising
It's sad, isn't it, with all the problems we have in this world that a parent's choice in feeding their child is such a controversial issue? (Can we focus on feeding the hungry instead, please?) How do you think our ancestors got here? Their moms (or a wet nurse their parents employed) breast-fed them! They didn't have processed formula way back then. And I mean WAY back - before electricity, indoor plumbing, or even motorized transportation! Before breasts became sexualized, they had a practical purpose.
I chose to nurse mine. Aside from that fact that it was a personal choice, I loved the fact that it was free, always ready and I didn't need to buy all the extra stuff required to bottle feed (all the different nipples for each stage, bottles, brushes - and oh, that expensive formula!). Breast-feeding is not instinctual and it is not easy to begin. (My oldest was much easier to nurse than my youngest, but my youngest has a much stronger attachment to nursing than his big brother did. And if you're really determined to nurse and you can't get help at home, contact your local hospital. If they don't have someone on their maternity staff they can direct you to, they'll be at least a good starting point for someone who can.) But once you get the hang of it, it's so easy. The only thing you need to take with you, is a blanket or cover of some sort to shield your nursing pumpkin from the shaming (and sometimes pervy) eyes of passers-by. (And at some point, you will either be scolded by an old lady for "doing that in public" or leered at by some creeper in the next booth at Chick-Fil-A.)
My first husband was staunchly against my breast-feeding our son. He said that it would ruin my 34C's and he hadn't signed up for that (yeah, he was a real gem). He wasn't the opposition I was prepared for. Neither was my mom who told me that women in our family weren't able to do that so I should just go ahead and buy the bottles and formula. Luckily for me, my girl-friends, my mother-in-law and my pediatrician were in my corner. And when we did turn to supplementing with formula, it wasn't a decision I tormented myself with. I was working and the provider we chose told us our hungry little boy was devouring the pumped milk supply faster than I could replenish it. He was four months old - too young to switch over to regular food. I continued to nurse at night and on the weekends for the next five months and he switched easily between boob and bottle. And when he decided he was done nursing, neither of us looked back with regret.
While my second husband may not have been 100% on board, he said he was willing to give it a try when our son was born last summer. (He never once mentioned the ruination of my boobs.) I could tell he missed getting to feed the baby. But when I got up in the middle of the night, so did he. He changed the baby's diaper, brought me ice water and rubbed my back. Then when baby was full, he burped him and snuggled him back to sleep. This was the support I'd missed out on the first time. And he's been equally supportive when I need to nurse the baby out in public. Whether he's shielding us from prying eyes or assisting us into the car for more private nursing (sometimes the baby just will not tolerate a cover), whatever we need to get the job done, he's our man! (While my oldest embraced the bottle eagerly, my youngest does not. He will drink water from a "trainer" cup, but he knows where the milk comes and that's the only way he'll take it!)
So imagine my surprise when I went into the doctor for my six week post-partum check up. I'm sure this was motivated by a drug rep (those sneaky little buggars really do make the medical decisions for us now, don't they), but the girl checking me out after my appointment asked me what type of formula we were using for my pumpkin. When I told her I was nursing, she said, "Well, when your milk starts drying up just let us know and we can provide you with the right formula to supplement so he gets all the vitamins that your breast milk doesn't contain." I think I was able to turn around before I had to pick my jaw up off the floor. I've had to make several trips to the doctor since then and she still says the same thing to me. Every. Single. Time. You'd think after 9 months (NINE!!), that she'd stop asking. I've got my response down pat now and it comes out with practiced precision. "He's still nursing thank you we're weaning him at a year and putting him straight onto cow's milk." Now, if he was failing to thrive - not gaining weight, not hitting his milestones, lethargic - I wouldn't have hesitated to switch him to formula. I'm not so attached to nursing that I would put him in danger. And even though we did have some digestive issues (projectile vomiting which our pediatrician diagnosed as GERD), we worked through them while continuing to nurse (a couple months on baby Zantac and he was just fine). I can't stress enough finding a pediatrician who's on your side. This is the doctor to trust with your baby's life and they should - if not agree with you 100% - listen to your requests and work with you through any complications that pop up.
The lines are drawn and the teams are picked. Whether you're Pro-Boob, or Pro-Bottle, you should be allowed to feed your baby without fear of humiliation - or in some extreme cases, jail time. Whether you're defending your decision to you friends, family, the community at large or -gasp- a medical professional, the point is to trust yourself. You're the one who's with him day in and day out. You know when something isn't right, and conversely, when it is.
Happy Raising
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary. How do your pumpkins grow?
My kids are currently 11 and 9 months. Both boys. Some of you might be saying, "Oh, you poor girl!" But I wished this on myself. I was raised with mostly girls - and I hated it. After everything was said and done, I had 3 sisters and two brothers (not all under the same roof - we were all an amalgamation of marriages and re-marriages), and of my six cousins, four were girls. When I dreamt of my adult life - and children - I said I wanted four boys. My husband has a son from a previous relationship (who doesn't live with us) and my oldest is from my first marriage. Maybe one day we'll have another baby and I can fool myself into 'having four boys'. Maybe. I have to get my husband on board first.
When it comes to my kids, I'm stricter than most parents these days. While we have a TV in the house, my son knows he can only watch it on the weekends. Same goes for playing his video games and access to the good ol' internet. It's a privilege he needs to earn through his schoolwork and behavior. I say "no" and I mean it - and no amount of pleading, begging or crying changes my mind. When the weather's halfway decent, I push my son out the door. To play. Outside. The first time my oldest slammed the door and screamed how much he hated me, I smiled. It's not my job to be his friend. It's my job to be his mom. I brought him into this world, it's my responsibility to prepare him for it.
I started this blog to share my experiences with you. Hope you have as much fun raising your pumpkins as I do raising mine.
When it comes to my kids, I'm stricter than most parents these days. While we have a TV in the house, my son knows he can only watch it on the weekends. Same goes for playing his video games and access to the good ol' internet. It's a privilege he needs to earn through his schoolwork and behavior. I say "no" and I mean it - and no amount of pleading, begging or crying changes my mind. When the weather's halfway decent, I push my son out the door. To play. Outside. The first time my oldest slammed the door and screamed how much he hated me, I smiled. It's not my job to be his friend. It's my job to be his mom. I brought him into this world, it's my responsibility to prepare him for it.
I started this blog to share my experiences with you. Hope you have as much fun raising your pumpkins as I do raising mine.
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