Full-Moon Celebration

BB turned one month old last Wednesday! Here are a couple of pictures of the little guy and me. I was going through our photos and realized that there were virtually no Mommy-BB pics in our collection, so I took the liberty of staging our own photo-shoot session.

The Chinese tradition calls for a Full-Moon celebration for babies once they hit the one-month mark. It is a big deal celebration, since that's when the babies are first introduced to friends and relatives. My parents had a huge Full-Moon celebration for me at a banquet hall and invited over a hundred (yes, a hundred) friends and relatives. K and I neither have the money to throw a huge banquet, nor do we know a hundred people locally in Arkansas (come to think of it, we do not know a hundred people that we would invite to this event). So, we decided to scale BB's Full-Moon celebration down just a tiny bit--the guest list consisted K, EB, my parents and me.

EB got to choose her brother's birthday cake, although in the process, she decided that it was only fair to celebrate her birthday as well. Despite the fact that her birthday is still a couple of months away, we thought: why not? After all, BB wouldn't know the difference anyway. Or so we thought...look at the picture below. BB was fighting hard to reclaim his place in this celebration.

It was a grand celebration indeed. The grown-ups enjoyed a nice bottle of 2007 Earthquake Zinfandel, and BB enjoyed a nice bottle of 2011 Mommy Milk.


Happy Full-Moon, BB!

My Long Vent About Breastfeeding

I've been feeling anger lately towards the La Leche League and lactation consultants in general. It's nothing personal; they all seem like very nice people, and I am sure they just want to trumpet the wonders of breastfeeding to the world and help new mothers nurse effectively. The thing is, though, in all their enthusiasm to shout from the rooftops about the life-enriching, immunity-boosting and mother/child-bonding powers of breastfeeding, they have a way of making somebody who's struggling to nurse effectively feel pretty darn crappy.

I recognize that most of what I've been feeling stems from my frustration with my own breastfeeding inadequacies: piss-poor supply and intense pain from a difficult latch (imagine your nipples being grated down with an industrial-grade sanding machine). But I also feel plenty beat down by the lactation industrial-complex. In my experience, the breastfeeding evangelists promote it as a cure for everything: Want to cure colic? Start breastfeeding! Want to lose post-pregnancy pounds? Start breastfeeding! Want world peace? Start breastfeeding!

I've always had a hard time breastfeeding, but I desperately wanted to make it work this time around. With EB, I went to multiple lactation consultants, all to no avail. The poor thing was losing so much weight that the pediatrician talked me into pumping and supplementing big time with formula. While I quickly obliged, it took me awhile to come to peace with it. I knew it was the right thing to do, but it made me feel inadequate. Especially when the lactation consultants continuously tried to convince me that while pumping is a fine interim solution, I should still work towards directly breastfeeding. They buzzed around me like the Dr. Seuss character Sam-I-Am in a sequel called "Green Eggs and Lactate" -- "Try it, try it and you may...try it and you may I say!"

With the new little one, my usual breastfeeding problems were compounded further by a delay in milk production: it did not come in for almost seven days. As in, back in the pre-formula days, my baby would've either starved to death, or I would've had to bring the wee one to the village wet nurse to keep him alive. And since we no longer live in the Middle Ages, formula was in order.

I'm a glutton for punishment, so I once again, turned to a lactation consultant. And of course, she discouraged me from using a bottle--"We wouldn't want the baby to experience nipple confusion, would we?" She talked me into using an “infant feeding device”–a syringe that's connected to a long strand of IV tube. You had to fill the syringe with formula, tape the end of the IV tube onto your breast, and while breastfeeding, squeeze little pumps of the formula so that it mimics milk coming out of your breast. It looked ridiculous. Absurdity aside, it was difficult to coordinate—the IV tube would pop off, or I'd accidentally pump too much formula, causing BB to choke and sputter.

I did this for two days straight, and finally, bleary from lack of sleep, nipples raw and scabbed, my baby still shrinking and sputtering, I said, "F#@k IT!" and pulled out a bottle. From that point on, I resumed a combination formula feeding/pumping, and the little guy started plumping up like the Pillsbury Dough Boy.

Despite my previous experience with EB, I felt guilty for days. To console myself, I pored through baby books to help reaffirm my choice; surely somewhere out there, there would a story of somebody experiencing what I am, someone will surely reaffirm my decision to supplement with formula. Not so. Here is an excerpt from the book from the American Academy of Pediatrics:

“While recognizing the benefits of breastfeeding, mothers may feel that bottle-feeding gives the mother more freedom and time for duties other than those involving baby care...there's no need to worry about the mother's diet or medications that might affect the milk.”

Translation: You are a self-centered, selfish bitch who cares more about your own comfort than giving your baby what's best for him.

The especially maddening thing about this is that I couldn't even find something in these texts that suggested that anyone would ever really have inadequate production. Instead, all the advice seemed to ultimately boil down to this: You're not trying hard enough. So after talking with multiple friends who seem to have gone through similar issues, I put away the books, stopped calling the consultants and once again came to peace with my decision. I've done what I can and am now doing what's best for us. To hell with the lactation advocates, Le Leche League, and the American Academy of Pediatrics.

That is all. End of my breastfeeding saga, and end of my venting.

Back Home

I feel like I've been perpetually behind on blogging, but having a newborn does that to you. We've been back at home for a couple of weeks now and I'm finally getting the hang of being a mom to a newborn again. Meaning, I've re-read all of my old baby care books and torn through a few new ones, each about five times over.

For the most part, EB has been fantastic - "helping" with the feeding, fetching his pacifier and giving him sweet little kisses on the forehead. To be sure, she's had flashes of jealousy, but mostly it has manifested in the form of clinginess to me.

I find myself often staring at BB, studying his beautiful little mouth, his tiny little toes, and when his eyes are open, looking at his dark, peaceful eyes. He's absolutely perfect, I think, and then marvel that he can be so beautiful yet at the same time, bear such a close resemblance to one of the monkeys in the movie "Contagion." EB thinks that BB looks exactly like Edgar the butler from the movie "The Aristocats," with his bald, wrinkled forehead. She even gave him the nickname "Edgar Peanut" for his resemblance to the butler and because he's small like a peanut.

I love you, my little Monkey Edgar Peanut!

The New Guy in My Life

Meet our little new guy - BB. Born on September 18, 2011 at 11:43 PM. 5 pounds, 11 ounces of wonder.

It was quite a dramatic day. I felt my water break while eating a chicken wrap in a booth at Mimi's Cafe (Heh...now you will forever remember this restaurant as The Place where I left my mark. Sorry!). So, we left EB in the care of a good friend and rushed to the hospital only to be told that it wasn't my water (it was) and that I probably won't be in labor for days (wrong again) and sent home. That night, I was back at the hospital with major contraction pains and 7 cm dilated. Things moved fast from there (fortunately, not so fast that couldn't get an epidural, though.) and we able to greet our little man just two hours after I had checked back into Labor and Delivery.

Welcome to the world, BB...our adventure together has just begun!

She’s Got a Way with Words, Year 2

It’s been nearly a year since I posted EB's three-year old "EB-isms," so I thought I’d refresh the list. Obviously the latest EB-isms have progressed beyond the simple funny words she used to invent. The latest collection includes a combination of funny-logic, logical-logic, and words that she will want to swallow when she hits pre-pubescent years.

EB on being a child of interracial marriage:
“I’m half-Chinese, but when I grow up I will be full Chinese - just like my mommy.”

She then also likes to point out that K is "Zero Chinese," and look at him pitifully as if he's missing out.  My ancestors would've been proud.

EB on growing up:
“Mommy, I want to live with you and Daddy forever and ever and ever.”

This one makes me smirk. I will be sure to pull it up when EB is in her pre-teenage years; rebellious, surly and ready to run away from home.

EB on her career aspirations:
“When I grow up, I want to work next to Mommy in the same office.”

God, I really, really, really hope this is not going to be the case, for both my sake and her sake. For my sake, because that would show that I have not moved up the ladder in 17 years. For her sake, because office jobs are overrated. I like my job just fine…but for the love of everything that’s good, follow your passions, EB!

EB on who’s the boss:
EB: “Mommy, I’m going to be the boss of you.”
Me: “Umm…no. I’m the boss of you and don’t you ever forget it.”
EB: “OK. But Mommy, you’ll never be the boss of Jesus; Jesus will always be the boss of YOU.”

This confirms that we are in the South. Neither K nor I are that religious; we’ve gone to the church maybe a handful of times, so she definitely picked this one up from other kids.

34 Weeks and Counting

Here I am, 34 weeks pregnant. My belly has expanded to such a ginormousity that I’ve occasionally caught the guys at work alarmingly eye me as if I’m about to crouch down and  birth a baby right in front of their eyes. Relax, dudes...sudden labor and delivery usually only happens in the movies.

For the most part, I’ve been feeling OK. There’s always the typical pesky pregnancy side effects: permanent shooting pain down my lower back, 6+ visits to the toilet in the middle of the night, the insomnia, and the feeling that I’ve been impersonating Fudgy the Whale for the past few months. Overall though, I think I’ve enjoyed this pregnancy far more than my first one. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I now tangibly can see how 10 months of discomfort will result in another wonderful little thing like EB. Or it could be that we did not have the easiest time getting pregnant this time around, so I realize now how much of a gift it is to get this far along without a hitch.

Nevertheless, I’m getting bored and am anxious to enjoy a few of my favorite indulgences again. Like going for a long run on the weekends - although with the weather that we’ve had this summer, it would not have been possible anyway. Or that great glass of red wine with dinner and happy hours after work, the martini at work event at Sonny William’s. Or the sublime sushi platter paired with crisp, cool beer. The list goes on and on.

So I eagerly await Baby Stephen’s arrival. And while I don’t plan on creating a birth plan (I didn’t have one for EB, and I figured I’d just continue to go with the flow this time around), I do have a solid post-birth dining plan: a congratulatory toast with a glass of bold Rioja, a dinner of exotic rolls and sushi from Sushi Café and a breakfast of runny eggs on toast.

K, take note.

Bugs and Clichés

I grew up eating everything just about everything that was placed in front of me—liver, fish with eyes still intact, frog’s legs--you name it. I am determined to raise a child that semi-follows in my footstep. I don't expect her to eat the same stuff I did when I was a kid, since you have to work pretty hard to find fish with head/eyes intact in the States. But I do expect her to try everything that K and I eat, so we have a motto in our household: try everything just once, and remember the starving children out there.

On the latter point, I find myself constantly telling EB that she’s lucky to have such abundance of food available to her--there are starving children in Africa and Asia that would give anything to have what she has (clichéd, I know). “Sometimes, these starving kids have to eat bugs to get enough nutrition,” I would tell her. To which, her eyes would always widen, and she would take the obligatory bite of the food that she was protesting earlier on. She definitely took this to heart, as you’ll see in the dialogue that we had last night.

EB: “Why do kids have to go to school?”

Me: “So you can learn lots of things.”

EB: “Why do we need to learn lots of things?”

Me: “So you can become smart and get a job. You know what happens if you don’t get a job?”

EB: “You can’t make any money.”

Me: “That’s right. And what happens if you can’t make any money?”

EB: “Then that means you can’t buy food. And it means that you have to eat bugs, LOTS OF BUGS, ALL NIGHT LONG.”



This wasn’t exactly what I had in mind, but at least now I know that my lectures to her isn’t in one ear and out the other.