Because I Said So

Natural, Schmatural

Do you think I'd anger the La Leche league if I printed up a zillion t-shirts that read, "Breastfeeding Sucks"? (Pun intended.)

I'm just back from a visit to a lactation specialist at my clinic. I've had some problems of late and nearly threw in the towel a couple times, and opened that canister of formula I bought for emergencies. Anyone who has had a child already knows this, but for anyone else here's a tip: just because it's natural doesn't mean it's easy. In fact, there are many "natural" things that are -- at the very least -- pains in the posterior, and at most deadly. To wit:

lockjaw (aka tetanus)
killer bees
athlete's foot
Billy Mays (the spokesman, not the English footballer)
poison ivy
spiders
intestinal flu
giving birth
breastfeeding

Now, I know that giving birth and breastfeeding are not afflictions, exactly (although according to the World Health Organization over 500,000 women die each year from complications of pregnancy or childbirth), but one can expect some negative side effects from these, including pain, bleeding, rending of hair and/or garments, threatening spouse with bodily harm, profanity, resentment, depression, running away from home, etc. All of which I have experienced (or fantasized about) over the last several days.

But thanks to Nurse Colleen, things are back on track. I feel one thousand percent better than I did over the weekend, and I can now face the next breastfeeding session with bravery and aplomb -- with the help of a nipple shield and some gel packs for "wound care." (Nasty.)

Minor setback, this. Overall things with the new baby are going well. She is a very easy-going baby: as long as she is being held, she is fine. With Henry it was all about the food. With Frieda, not so much. There are times when I have to wake her to feed her. After Henry's all-you-care-to-eat style, it's shocking to have to do this.

Henry was large, and stayed large -- the "big boned" variety. Frieda, though she was a good weight at birth, is more of the long-and-lanky type.

Henry is adjusting slowly to the presence of his little sister, though her crying particularly bothers him, and he often runs around the house with his hands over his ears. This morning, he started to cry when Frieda was crying and I explained that babies get sad, and sometimes they cry, and it's okay. I'm saying this to him as I'm struggling with my own anxiety, as I'm still trying to figure out how to physically deal with two little creatures at once: one of whom is crying because she wants to be held and fed, and the other who needs help putting on his shoes and his jacket, and opening the door, and is -- to boot -- running late for school.

There are days when I don't quite get things together enough to allow myself a shower or a decent meal, the days when I spritz a little cologne on my feet and eat an ice cream bar while standing over the sink.

C'est la vie, with kids.

Elegy for Sydney

On Sunday, we had our remaining cat, Sydney, euthanized. Sometime on Friday night or early Saturday morning she'd had a stroke. She couldn't hold her head upright. Instead, she held it tilted at an angle -- we think because half of her body was partially paralyzed. She couldn't walk in a straight line. She tried to, but she kept turning in circles. It was hard to see. However, she didn't seem to be in pain. She was still affectionate, still seemed to want to eat (though finding her way to the food bowl was difficult for her). We gave her a day to see if she would improve. But she didn't, and it seemed unlikely she would.

Like Ira, our cat who died a little over a year ago, she was nearly 21 years old. She was a sweet cat with an affectionate disposition. She used to be very skittish, one of those cats you'd never see if you were a visitor to our house. Then, a few years ago, she went deaf and was suddenly friendly and social. She had the most beautiful fur, soft and sweet-smelling, until she got too old to groom herself anymore.

I remember very well the day I got her back in 1987. An old woman living in a decrepit old mansion on Bryant Avenue south in Minneapolis was a bit of a "collector" -- someone who compulsively hoarded cats, although unlike many collectors she also gave them away. That's how I came to get Sydney. I went down the basement (that dark, damp, old-house basement), and there she was -- a little puffball eating canned chicken. She was the only one of her many siblings with long hair.

Now, I'm not usually one to be seduced by cuteness. But she was just overwhelmingly cute. Cosmically cute. If came off her in waves. No one, I think, could be immune.

She was a smart cat, and used to fetch those plastic rings from the gallon milk container caps. When I was done playing, I'd hide the ring from her. Once I put it in a desk drawer, and was later surprised to find the drawer open, and Sydney carrying the ring about in her mouth. She'd figured out how to get on top of the desk, and push/bat the drawer open from behind. You go, cat.

We will miss Sydney, as will Della the Dog who held particular affection for her. Except for a brief period in the midst of the Reagan administration (aka my freshman year of college), I have never lived without a cat. But kitten and newborn baby are not a good mix, I think. Someday we'll get another cat -- we can only hope as sweet and loving as Ira or Sydney.

Goodbye, old friend.