This Mama’s Dharma

A big snowstorm hit DC this past weekend and it’s still pure pristine white outside. Sami gained an ounce and all is right with the world. It’s amazing how often my mood correlates with his weight gain or lack thereof. I think about the second noble truth: all suffering comes from clinging… but how do you not cling with your children? I am so attached, of course I am. How do I find just the right balance, so that I do not smother my child with anxious love? I want him to be free. I do not want to ever weigh him down with my neuroses, to pass on the anxiety baton to him. I know this is ambitious and a big old cliche — to not want to fuck up your kid like you were fucked up. Perhaps that is a recipe for fucking up your kid. I know I should just do my best and start saving up for his Therapy Fund just in case. I know that if I don’t let go, I will always find something to be dreadfully obsessed and concerned about where my son is concerned. Like Joseph Goldstein says, “If it’s not one thing, it’s another.” Oy vey. I woke up today and realized: I’m a Jewish mother! Poor, poor Sami…

Today Ria and I went grocery shopping with Sami. He used to automatically sleep when I took him out in the car, but no more. He’s older now and has become more alert and awake. He was having none of his car seat and would not stop crying until I picked him up and held him, and then he was fine–looking around at all the brightly colored stuff in the store. I remember the all-encompassing feeling of shame and panic when he started wailing in the Whole Foods — like people would all simultaneously turn around and waggle their fingers: ” You’re a Bad Mother!” I am OK with Sami crying at home — I mean, I want to comfort him, and sometimes when he screams, it really scares me, but most of the time I accept the fact that Sami is a baby and babies do cry. It’s a primary mode of communication for them. But in my perfect world, Sami is never upset in public — if he is, that means that there is something wrong with me and my parenting skills. I imagine Child Protective Services agents lurking around the corner waiting to snatch him away from me and put him in a god-awful foster home. “Your baby is crying, ma’am. We’re going to have to take him away from you, for his own good…”

I made a mental note to self — when out shopping, always bring the sling. I don’t blame the kid for not wanting to be stuck in the stupid car seat. Who would want to be strapped into a five- point harness, when you can be snuggly and warm against your mother’s body? Attachment parenting is not just a nice-sounding set of theories–it’s actually easier for mother and baby.

After the Whole Foods, Sami was the paragon of chill for the rest of the day. He barely cried all night, and we played together and he smiled lots of big smiles, the kind that light up his face, and I was thrilled. Then, and you gotta love this part, I started to worry that he wasn’t crying! I know, how neurotic is that??! I started to worry that this was a sign that he was dehydrated and not getting enough milk and getting weak and my god I am starving my child and Many Other Anxious Thoughts. Which I am proud to say I promptly banished from my mind, and returned to the moments of me holding my smiling baby on my lap, and basking in the glow of his eyes locked with mine, beaming. I lived those moments.

Sami has taken every limited preconception I had about love and smashed it to bits, exposing me to a love without boundaries, without anything to hold it back. But the flip side of that love is the greatest terror I have ever known, the fear of losing the object of my love, the fear of hurting him, of damaging him in some way, of mishandling my responsibilities as a parent somehow. That is the dark side of attachment. I think that’s what the Buddha was talking about in the Second Noble Truth. I think I really get it now. Sami is my greatest teacher.

This past weekend I was feeling so crazy — boy does motherhood bring up my inferiority complexes, and the baby is just two months old. I think about how hard I have been on myself and know it is a total waste of time. My child has survived for two months on my milk. No matter how hard this feels, I am doing it.

I had so much hope in getting acupuncture from Dr. Safayan, to help heal my system after all these infections and antibiotics. But of course, my insurance doesn’t cover it. How enormously frustrating. It seems the only people who can access good alternative/integrative medical care are those who can afford to pay out of pocket. I guess I can’t rely on a professional to “cure” me — I just have to take matters into my own hands. Dr. Safayan ordered a bunch of bloodwork, including checking my prolactin levels, to see if there is some hormonal reason for my low supply — if I do have a low supply.

I took Sami to the Dr. yesterday for suspected thrush. Amazingly, we don’t have it! I thought for sure after all the antibiotics that we would. I have been freaking out and imagining problems where there are none. Nancy (the nurse practitioner) assured me that Sami is fine. He is in the 50th percentile for weight and 90th for height! He is just a long, skinny baby. How many times do I have to hear that Sami is fine until I believe it? It’s like I have no belief in my abilities as a mother — I have to go outside myself for validation.

What is called for in this instance is compassion for myself, trying to find my way as a new mommy. While this is the most glorious thing I have ever done, it is also the hardest, and I am bound to have some low points, moments of fear, where I get lost in the anxious fantasies my mind likes to spin. The antidotes are mindfulness and compassion. That is always the answer to suffering.

I’ve been having these bouts of weepiness, interspersed with trying to hold on to my sense of humor–which keeps wriggling away from me. I took a post-partum depression quiz and scored quite low on it. I think those quizzes are bullshit, and know I don’t have PPD. I don’t even like the term. I think mothers get scared and lonely and despondent and they try to slap a label on it. I think mothers feel unsupported and isolated and overwhelmed. They are expected to cope with too much — no wonder they get depressed.

I am not depressed so much as I am anxious, especially about the whole breastfeeding thing. I had visions yesterday of this breast infection spiraling out of control, and them having to amputate my boob. I know that’s crazy but I thought it.

I think about how I’d feel if I couldn’t breastfeed and I get so sad. I’d feel too horrible, too ashamed, I think, to even hang out with my breastfeeding friends. I’d feel like I was a total failure, although I know there is more to motherhood than what food source you provide to your baby. There’s part of me that worries about this fixation on the breastfeeding as am emblem of maternal success or failure. I need to broaden my perspective…

Someday I hope they’ll say of me…”She was a breastfeeding WarriorGoddess, wielding a blood-stained Boppy as her shield. She nursed fearlessly, heroically, selflessly, gloriously — through nipples that felt like they were on fire, cracked, blistered, and bleeding; a right breast so swollen and red from repeated infections she dubbed the pair “Hedwig and the Angry Tit;” through stomach flu; backache — pain of all flavors, stripes, and shapes!”

Unfortunately I won’t be the kind of mother to repeatedly remind Sami that I went through hell to breastfeed him. It is tempting, but — I won’t do it. I’ll wear my martyrdom alone…sigh.

I’ve been sick since last Sunday, when I developed the 24 hour stomach flu thingie that’s been going around. Then, when my right nipple was *almost* healed, The Evil Infection Mastitis (pronounced “Mass Titties” by my sweet husband) came back on Tuesday — I was slammed with the worst fever and chills I can remember. Fever and chills twice in one week — ugh.

I want to retch at the thought of taking antibiotics a 3rd time. At least I got a prescription for a different kind this time. I went to a lovely GYN (referred by the midwives at the maternity center) who finished my questions for me.

Me: “I’m worried that–”
Lovely OB/GYN: “Not to worry– this antibiotic is completely safe to use by breastfeeding”
Me: Actually, I was going to ask about the repeated use of antiobiotics on my immune system–
Lovely OB/GYN: No effects.
Me: (Thinking, “oooooooooookay.”) What about thrush?
Lovely OB/GYN: Oh, we can prescribe you a cream that will clear it right up.

My gut is going to be a disaster by the time this is over. Right now I HATE allopathic medicine. It’s only good if you have gotten hit by a truck or have lost an eye or something of that nature. I found a holistic MD who’s also an acupuncturist and I hope he can help me rebuild my immune system after all these antibiotics.

Anyway, that’s why I haven’t written. I’ve been a mess. This too, shall pass, y’all.

My baby son is really sleeping like a baby and he looks beautiful. I love him scarily.

Sami has a cold. At least I think it’s a cold. His little nose is all stuffy, but he is able to breathe through it OK. And he’s sleeping a little more than usual, poor guy. But he’s also very smiley and happy. I took this smiley picture of him yesterday. It’s my favorite picture of him yet.

I blame myself for Sami’s cold. What did I do wrong? Did I not wash my hands enough? Did I not tell others to wash their hands enough? I wiped my friend’s daughter’s nose once last week — did I wash my hands afterwards? I can’t remember. I thought he was supposed to get immunities from my breast milk that protect him from illness! HOW COULD HE GET SICK? HOW? And then: I’M A TERRIBLE MOTHER!

I need to put a few drops of Rescue Remedy under my tongue and chill out. The kid has a stuffy nose. He’ll be OK. If it doesn’t go away in a few days, I’ll call his pediatrician.

I think about how as a parent I want to spare Sami from any kind of suffering, but I can’t do that. I can love him and care for him as best as I can, but the kid is going to get a cold now and then. He’s going to be uncomfortable and in pain now and then. He’s going to have experiences he doesn’t want now and then. That’s the nature of this life, and I cannot protect him from everything, as much as I want to. And even if I could, I would probably be doing him a disservice. I think of the story of the Buddha’s enlightenment — it was only when he left the confines of his charmed life as a prince and witnessed old age, sickness, and death that he was driven to seek enlightenment.

Last year when I was four months pregnant and on a two-week meditation retreat I requested an interview with James Baraz, one of the teachers there, who is also a parent. I asked him about parenting and practice, and something he said stuck with me. He said that in parenting, three of the four Bramaviharas (the “heavenly abodes” or sublime states of mind and heart in Buddhism) come easy — lovingkindness, joy, and compassion. But the fourth–equanimity– comes harder. I find that to be true in my own experience. It feels almost impossible to accept the way things are, especially when they are less than ideal. Yet it would be a great gift to Sami and to myself if I could cultivate more equanimity in my life. Not to detach and become apathetic — that’s not equanimity — but to be able to be fully accepting of what’s happening, to be open to it, even if it’s unpleasant. Of course that doesn’t mean you like it, and you can and should do what you can to make things better in the future, but in the moment you just accept what is. Like the equanimity phrase goes: “Things are just as they are.”

This all reminds me to renew my meditation practice. My practice may not look like it did B.S. (Before Sami), with lots of classes and retreats and stuff. Those things are great, and it’s a real privilege to take part in them, but I sense my practice now is about cultivating mindfulness of all my daily activities. I feel like I am being asked to take my practice to another level. It’s so much harder to be mindful in daily life–and so much easier in some ways, when on retreat, when everything and everyone around you supports your practice.

A dharma teacher once said, “Sit, and know you are sitting. The whole of the dharma will be revealed.” Nursing is what I do most these days. So I can nurse, and know I am nursing, feel the still-slightly-sore right nipple, hear the sounds of his breathing and his funny little babblings, feel the touch of his little hand on my breast, the tension in my upper back, the love and tenderness I have towards my son. I can hold Sami close when he cries, and just be with the escalating high-pitched wailing, the anxiety, the desperate desire to comfort him, the frantic mental search to figure out what’s wrong, the sensation of his stiff little body straining against mine, the relief when he relaxes into my shoulder and his sobs subside into noisy little gasping breaths, and then…peaceful sleep.

This morning, I washed my breast pump parts in the sink and caught my mind before it drifted off. Just washing pump parts. Feeling the warm water, smelling the scent of the soap, watching the slightly nervous tenor of my emotions around Sami’s cold. It was not easy, to stay with my present experience, but it felt good. Simple and good, just to be with something as mundane as washing pump parts. Everything is sacred. I just am not aware of it most of the time, as I am so often busy being elsewhere. These moments will never come back again. I want to live my moments.

Yesterday we went to register Sami’s home birth with the Bureau of Vital Records. It’s weird to think that this whole past six weeks, he didn’t officially exist! His birth certificate is coming in the mail next week, and his Social Security card in the next 6-8 weeks. I could have changed his name to anything — I joked with Hani that I named him “Bob Edgar.” We talked with Mrs. Lewis, the woman who helped us with our paperwork. Rochelle (one of Karen’s other clients) and I mentioned how it seems like so many baby boys are being born. Mrs. Lewis said that she had been there during the Vietnam War, and that the number of baby boys born during wartime is statistically higher. I don’t know why, but that creeps me out for some reason.

In other news, Rachel, Jason, and baby Darian left today. After fifteen years, I still consider Rachel my best friend. It was so good to hang out with them, and what a learning experience to hang out with her sweet one year-old. She is so amazingly curious, full of boundless energy, and gets into everything. She laughs and cries and screams and squeals with abandon. She is fascinated by electric sockets and anything remotely dangerous. She has buttery, bite-able cheeks. She takes a few steps and then plops on her butt with a giggle. When she falls forward, she is able to break her fall with her hands.

We definitely got a sense of what kind of baby-proofing we’ll have to do when he gets older.

Right now I am enjoying these days of his tiny, tiny babyhood. He is right beside me on the bed right now in a wonderful state of quiet alertness, dressed in the cutest pair of blue long john pants. He kicks his little legs and coos and yawns and breathes his funny, old man breaths. He smiles when I smile and say his name, and say, “hi, little boy!” I interrupt my typing to play with him and kiss his little tummy. I love my little man so much! He’s the sweetest little being I’ve ever known… These days of simplicity are so precious, I can’t even express it in words.

1. Mr. Bug
2. Buggles
3. Mr. Bugglesworth
4. (Mr.)Bugglesby
5. Sir Nurse-a-lot
6. Baron Von MUNCHausen
7. Bubbles
8. Sam-O
9. “Mister”
10. Li’l Bug

OK, I know every mother thinks her baby is the cutest baby in the world, but mine really is.
End of discussion.

Sami does THE cutest thing when he falls asleep nursing and pulls off my boob. He’ll keep working his little jaw like he’s nursing a phantom boob. He also makes these funny little babbling sounds when he starts nursing. SO adorable… just had to share!

Today was a bizarrely unseasonal 61 degrees in Washington, DC in January. Yay for global warming! I took Sami out for our second-ever postpartum walk– to the post office to return some nursing shirts. I loved that I didn’t have to worry about him getting too cold. I was going to carry him in the fleece pouch but I thought it might be too hot, and that it might hurt my back, so I took him out in the snap-n-go. I would rather carry him if possible–negotiating that flimsy stroller over the decrepit DC sidewalks was kinda scary. I think that stroller is meant for the mall or something.

Anyway, to be honest, it felt kinda weird to be pushing a baby in a stroller. Not bad weird–I mean I was gazing at Sami, who promptly fell asleep, and loving his peaceful sleeping face–just, well strange, to be a stroller-pushing mama. It was the first time I ever did it (on the other walk I carried him in the fleece pouch). I remember pre-pregnancy, I never used to look at women pushing babies in strollers. I simply didn’t see them. Then when I got pregnant, I spotted stroller-pushing mamas from a mile away. I was obsessed — how old was the baby? What kind of stroller was it? I even stopped mamas on the street to ask them about their strollers. Now, I am one of them. We are a tribe. Every time I passed another stroller-pushing mama on the street, we smiled at one another.

Anyway, it felt so good to get some exercise — we have to do this more often! If the cold ever comes back… I’ll just bundle him up really well.

In other news, today I finally figured out how to wear Sami in the Babyhawk mei tai I bought for him! I had been kind of intimidated by all the straps, but now that my little man is almost 9 lbs and sturdier, I thought I’d try it. And I totally got it! It was actually easy. And it feels way easier on my upper back than the pouch, although the pouch is more snuggly. I think he liked it too, although he was kind of cranky/hungry, so I can’t tell.

So…today has been a good day. It feels so weird to have the windows open in January.

In non-Sami news (is there such a thing?) I am trying to read Mother of Sorrows by my creative writing professor, Richard McCann. But it’s so hard to actually hold the book and turn the pages while nursing. I need a book-stand!

The other book I’m reading right now is It’s a Boy: Women Writers on Raising Sons… fun essays.

I took Sami to see his pediatrician today and the lactation consultant on Monday. Both are very pleased with his weight gain and have proclaimed he’s doing “great.” Not just good — “great.” I’m trying to take that in. It might be making a dent in the Great Wall of Anxiety and Inadequacy that I’ve built up around the whole nursing thing.

I find it ironic that in general, I reject the medical establishment and the opinion of “experts,” but when it comes to my son, I am relying on the experts to let me know I’m being a good parent, nourishing my son properly, etc. That’s something to look at in myself. Why can’t I fully trust in myself as a parent? I guess I need to cut myself a break — it’s scary to be 100% responsible for the life of a tiny, helpless little human being!

Sami weighs 8 lbs 10 oz as of yesterday and has grown 3 inches. The child is not starving or failing to thrive. And that is only with a little bit of supplementing with my own milk — maybe 5 ounces at most on a good day. So the vast majority of his calories are coming straight from the source. His pediatrician thinks that this just may be his body type — long and lean, like a little string bean.

I was complaining yesterday to my friend Harriet how incredibly time-consuming it is to bf Sami, as he nurses so often and for so long… this was her response:

“I’m afraid I agree that it is an on call all day every day job and to be honest I dont think I ever left the house when rachael was born for about two or three weeks. This is normal. It is shocking to learn that you are a cow, chained to a sucking machine but that is what a mother is, in the first few weeks of a baby’s life. It can be very anti climactic and unstimulating.”

Thank you, Harriet. I can always trust you to tell it like it is.

Reality check: Sami won’t be a little tiny babe like this for very long. Soon he’ll be grabbing my boob and waving it around in public. OK, so the nursing is time- consuming, so it’s practically all I do all day — well, it’s my full-time job right now to feed my son. I just need to relax and enjoy these precious moments with him snuggled so close…and to trust that I’m making enough milk for my baby!

So I’m embracing the Inner Jewish Mother in me, but not letting her run the show…

I just had the most disturbing dream. In the dream, I went to the zoo (and didn’t even see any animals) and left Sami in the car w/out realizing it. Eight hours later, I went back to the car and Sami was alive, but emaciated. He looked like a little concentration camp victim.

I began to breastfeed him and was sort of spraying a stream of milk into his mouth (wish I had enough milk to do this in real life), which was opening like a little baby bird’s. It was so weird, and disturbing.

Hmm… it doesn’t take Freud to analyze this dream, when I am so terrified of my son being too skinny, and that I am going about this feeding thing all wrong.