Working and Pumping

Disclaimer: In the following post I recount the challenges I find in breastfeeding and working. Nothing in the text below is meant to insult mommas who decide to formula feed. I’m not saying it’s harder to be a  mom when you’re working. I’m not saying it’s harder to be a mom when you’re working and nursing. This is just the challenges I’ve come across.

It’s dawn and I’m sitting in my bedroom chair hoping the cadence of my pump is keeping Donovan in slumber land and not disturbing him. This is the beginning of my routine. Each morning I creep to my chair, before everyone is up, to pump. I get the most milk in the morning and I’m always thrilled to see how many ounces I got. It usually follows a 5am nursing session since I know I will still get milk and it keeps supply up. The ensuing chaos of getting everyone out the door can be so complicated. To simplify I try to pack the kids meals the night before; Izzy gets lunch and milk and Donovan gets breast milk and a nipple for the bottles.  I also set aside empty bottles to take with me. In the morning I have to remember two ice packs; one for Donovan and one for the milk I make throughout the day. On Mondays I have to also pack the pump parts that I sterilized over the weekend. With so much to remember it would be easy to forget an important piece and ruin the whole morning.

Two hours later and I’m in front of my computer typing away and over the clickity-clack of my keyboard is the familiar cadence of my pump. Earlier in the morning I surfaced pump appropriate attire from my closet. That’s right, pump appropriate. I’m not talking about a nursing bra. I could spend a whole post venting about the lack of attractive bras; I’m a mom not a granny damn it. I’m talking about clothes that make pumping easily accessible. That means no dresses. No way would I be hauling a dress over my head to pump four times during my work day. Button down shirts are nice, but if I wear a cami underneath then I’m still pulling something up over my head so the benefit of buttons is reduced. With my limited wardrobe options I’m lucky I’m not wearing the same outfit each day.

After the pump has sucked me dry it’s time to clean up and make sure I’ve redressed appropriately. Step one, remove pump parts. Step two redress. Step three, clean and put away parts and milk. Sounds easy enough right? Wrong. The window of time I have to get this all done is so short that I find myself picking up the phone to start a conference call with one hand, while snapping my nursing bra with the other. An embarrassing moment could arise from a number of reasons. Milk spillage on my silk shirt that leaves a stain. Pump phalanges (or air horns as my husband refers to them) accidentally left on my desk. (Hey maybe I could turn more people away from my office just by leaving them out?) A shirt that hasn’t been readjusted to cover my recently inhabited and now lumpy belly. A forgotten hands free pumping bra left out. All opportunities for humiliation. Perhaps the most embarrassing to me is the innocent knock on my door and my meek response, “I’ll be out in a few minutes.” It’s as if someone was interrupting potty time.

After I pack up I have a two hour window of freedom. But I’m not completely free. I worry about getting enough milk the next time so I take supplements, Mother Love. It’s a mixture of fenugreek, fennel and blessed thistle. Great for increasing milk supply. Not so helpful on my stomach. At one time I was drinking a special tea to help and that wreaked havoc on my system, so I’m back to just a supplement. Not only do I have to I take things to increase the supply, but I have to watch out for things that’ll decrease it, namely caffeine. Chocolate and coffee are my two best friends at work. Coffee to keep me going after yet another long night nursing Donovan every two hours, and chocolate because it makes me happy. (Yes, food makes me happy. I’m admitting it, that’s the first step right?)

The cycle repeats another three times before I get home and actually nurse Donovan. It’s proven that too much stress can deplete milk supply, and it’s ironic to me that the whole process is so stressful. In a perfect world, moms would have job protection for the first year of baby’s life and we wouldn’t have to worry about pumping like maniacs just to squeeze out enough milk for the next day. We’d be able to nurse our babies and enjoy it, without the drag of re-entering the work force and pumping the day away. But even with all of these annoyances, I wouldn’t have it any other way. I make it to the end of the day and I hold my little baby and nurse him and know that I’m doing what I think is best for him. And that makes me happy. 

Please take this seat

For 30 minutes of near solitude I barricade myself with my monstrous bags. I’m sitting on the aisle seat of the train hoping to keep the middle seat free. Why? So I don’t have to be squished into my seat, elbows cramped by my sides, unable to use my computer. But really . . . is that fair? Why do I deserve to spread out? I covet this time because normally I don’t have a minute to myself to think. I’m either caring for a child, flying through emails, comforting an anxiety ridden dog, or maybe, just maybe, talking with my husband. Time to myself comes at a premium. So I fight for a comfortable, quiet, pleasant smelling commute.
I’m starting to question that decision. I know when I’m walking down the aisles and there isn’t a seat to be found until I happen upon the lone bag filled middle seat, the last thing I want to do is meekly ask someone to move their bags. I when I finally muster up the courage to ask, the commuter, much like myself, won’t even look at me. A gruff sure, as they frustratingly push aside their bag and stand up to make room. On the receiving end of this, I always feel bad for having asked. Not a great way to start the morning.
Enough. I’m not going to proliferate this act of unkindness. From now on, I’ll push aside my bags with a smile. Heck, maybe I won’t even make my bags the obstacle. When I see the weary traveler approaching I’ll look up and smile. And when they ask to squeeze in, I’ll say of course, quickly stand up and smile as they take the middle seat. If I weren’t getting off before New York, I’d even slide in to give them the aisle seat. Wouldn’t that be a treat? Maybe this small act of kindness can spread like wildfire and everyone can graciously make room so that people aren’t left standing in the vestibules? Probably not, but at least I’ll know that I haven’t given a harsh start to someone else’s day by being stubborn and grumpy. 

Squeezing them tighter than ever

The horrific tragedy of Sandy Hook is all over the news, Facebook and the overwhelmed faces of the people I cross paths with. I live in Connecticut and know many people directly affected by it. And I know if I didn't live here, I would still be plagued by the unfathomable horror.
I thought it would be therapeutic to get my feelings out, and what better place than this blog? But I can't seem to do it. The fear and grief have shook me to my core, and my heart is filled to the brim with emotion. I can't seem to put into words everything I feel about this. And just when I want to release it, I catch myself. I feel so guilty for being this distraught when I didn't lose someone close to me. So I pull my fingers back from the keys and I stare at the cursor blinking, waiting for it's next letter.
The one thing I know for sure is that I've been squeezing my little ones tighter than ever. I've noticed Joe holding them closer for longer. Grandparents, if it is even possible, are more awestruck by their new skills. We all have a heightened awareness of the blessings in our lives.

Eye Lash Extensions? Really?

I'm a fan of trying new things, especially when it's going to simplify something in my increasingly busy life. For my 30th birthday I made an uncharacteristic request. I wanted eyelash extensions. Yes, it's a luxury, and superficial and I would never do it on a whim.
Depending on where you go the initial set of lashes ranges from $300 to $400. Crazy right? Well it happened to be part of deal package at a local salon and was half price. The opulence of spending a couple hundred dollars to improve your look for only a few weeks weighed heavy on my mind. If I asked Joe for a nice pair of earrings I'd have them forever. These lashes were going to fall off one by one until I was left looking 'normal' again. But it became so much more valuable to me because I had them done for my first few weeks back at work. For those weeks I wouldn't have to worry about doing my makeup, or how I looked. Being up all night with a very hungry infant doesn't exactly do wonders for my appearance. And I certainly didn't have the time to compensate for how tired I looked by applying makeup.
So this newly 30 year old gal went under the microscope for a 90 minutes eye lash extension application. Here's what I didn't expect:

• I had to sign a paper that warned of possible blindness
• My eyes had to be taped shut for the duration of the application
• The duration was 90 minutes!

One by one these thick curls of black plastic were being adhered to my existing stubby lashes. Throughout the application I could sense my muscles tensing up. I would have to routinely take deep breaths and quiet my hands and feet. There was nothing to be afraid of, but perhaps the anxiety of possible blindness for the sake of vanity was causing my hands to clench. 

"Oh how beautiful," I remember the woman remarking. I hoped it wouldn't be a complete waste of time and money. I made my way over to the mirror and was shocked. I had instant movie star eyes. There wasn't a speck of makeup on my face. Just the lashes. For weeks I received compliments on how great my makeup looked. I was even asked what kind of mascara I use.

Even more fulfilling than the compliments was the time I got back in the morning. I literally did not put on makeup for three weeks straight. I didn't have to spend any time hunched over a mirror painstakingly brushing gobs of black gook onto my lashes.  

I wish I had the bank account to keep up with the lashes, $20 a week and I could have them filled whenever they started to look sparse. Maybe I'll do it again when I hit 40? 

Izzy's Self-Esteem Age 2

Is there anyone out there who can say they sailed through grammar school unscathed? Anyone who can profess that they weren’t teased and weren’t ashamed of how they looked? Anyone, girls in particular, who didn’t identify with some sort of body image? Perhaps there are a few, but for the rest of us memories of those critical years of development probably sting on some level. I want so badly for Izzy to grow through those years with a positive outlook on who she is and what she can accomplish. And it starts now. Yes she’s two years old, but she can understand what I say to her, about her and about myself. So I’m starting now.

I like to wear makeup. I think I look better with it on. But lately I’ve been concerned about dressing up my face in front of Izzy. She asked what I was doing and I just stared back at her. I didn’t want to say I was making my face look pretty because that would mean that I think I’m not pretty without make up. So I told her I was making my eyelashes darker. Then she asked if she could put some on. I paused again, not because I would ever let my two year wield the mascara wand, but because my gut reaction was your lashes are beautiful and you don’t need it, quickly followed by you’re a child only adults wear makeup. So how do I explain that some people need to enhance how they look? Again, I know she’s two and she doesn’t need to know everything now, but how I talk about myself starts to influence her now. That day I gave her some chapstick to “protect her lips from the cold” and she was happy. And now I put makeup on when she’s not around.

After I got my face ready to, err, face the world, it was time to get dressed. Squeezing my post pregnancy body into my pre pregnancy clothes is an embarrassing Olympic sport. It’s a game to see how many outfits I can get in and out of in the small amount of time I have before one kids crying and the other kid is bored. Exasperated sighs and grumpy “huffs” filled the air. I’m not sure why three months after having by second child I expect my clothes to zip or button or mask my squishy spots. So there I was glaring at my reflection in frustration while my sweet little girl looked on. “Momma OK?” she whispered. Again it dawned on me. Here I am putting myself down in front of my daughter. I should have been celebrating that not only can I pull my pants over my thighs, but my thighs look pretty good. My middle may not be back to normal yet, but I just had a baby! My middle may be getting an extra big hug by clothes because there was a baby in there for 9 months. And carrying around my new double D’s doesn’t help my back any, but hey, I didn’t even have to have surgery to get a double cup increase.  I know I need to work on my perspective some, but I also need to watch what I say about myself. It really hit home the next time Izzy was getting dressed. I picked out adorable little leggings and as she pushed her little feet through and tugged on the pants she started grunting just like mommy when mommy gets dressed. Ouch.

Those are just two examples that I’ve witnessed where Izzy is learning, quicker than I expected, what people think about themselves. And here’s how I know it effects how she’ll think about herself. Ok I love my mom. I have to say that whenever I say something about her that could be perceived as negative. But here it goes for honesty’s sake. My mom is a beautiful woman. She’s nearing 60 and she has a gorgeous smile and stunning cheekbones. Seriously, women in Hollywood go under the knife to have the definition that she does. But I’ve never heard her say a nice thing about herself. She set a fantastic example of going to the track to sweat it out when she wanted to lose a few. In fact, she’s the reason I started running. But she didn’t applaud her own efforts or embrace the beauty that I knew she had.  To this day, the first thing I look at in any picture of myself is my arms. I think they’re big and flabby, just like my mom always said about her own arms. She NEVER said anything negative to me. Never pointed out any trouble areas. So why do I look at my body for the same issues that she “had.” Let me point out that my mom didn’t have these issues either. Maybe it has something to do with feeling like I look like my mom, so anything she said negative about herself must also be true of me?

Kristin Armstrong, author of Mile Markers: The 26.2 Most Important Reasons Why Women Run,  wrote about body image and her daughters and her efforts to celebrate her own body for the sake of her daughters. I didn’t think much about it until I saw my little Izzy inquisitively looking on as I piled on the eye makeup, or when I confused her with my struggle to find clothes that fit. I started thinking about it more and noticed how much of what my mom said about herself is what I feel about myself. I know she’s only two, but why not start now? Why not say positive things about myself in front of her. Why not focus on all the wonderful personality traits that make us who we are instead of what size the label in my pre preggo jeans says? I don’t try to sweat the small stuff, but when it comes to something as fragile as a little girls self-esteem I sure will do whatever it takes. 

Am I Doing it Right?

Why is she still screaming? What can I do to get her to stop slamming things on the ground when she's upset? Is she playing with the iPad too much? Is he still hungry? Does he have colic? Will he be able to nap at daycare if he isn't swaddled? Why am I deserting my children by going back to work? I start my day with questions, and the big guilt cloud just hangs over my head. Am I doing it right? Am I a good parent? And if so, how can I be a good employee when I go back to work? I thought having a second child would erase these doubts. I thought I gained confidence from going back to work once before, but now there are knots in my stomach and I'm physically ill about leaving my kids again. Where did my confidence go?
I love spending time with my kids. I feel like I've gotten to know Izzy so much better during my maternity leave. Yes, she still goes to daycare or grandma's most of the time because I didn't want to shock her schedule when I return to work. But the days that I'm home with her (and Donovan of course) are eye-opening. Izzy hit the terrible twos a while ago. When she's frustrated with something, or trying to assert her independence be on the look out for flying objects and be ready to block your ears from the wailing. Yesterday morning she spent 10 minutes screaming for the iPad that I left downstairs while we went to get dressed. Those minutes felt like an eternity and kicked off a string of questions and self doubt. I hate it when she cries, but I know enough not to give in. So why do I feel like I'm doing something wrong? I took child development courses in college, the books are next to my bed for some "light" reading. I've watched Super Nanny over and over. I participate in online forums discussing discipline. Yet, I still feel like my kid shouldn't be getting so upset when she can't get her baby out of her stroller. After restating, "If you need help, say Momma help please" at least 15 times, I started to see a slight change. I still worry that I'm either too firm, or not firm enough.
Despite her outbursts and my guilt and constant questioning, I still had a fantastic day with my kids. Izzy is at such a fun age where she's discovering new ways to play. I'm digging into my creative side and playing like a kid again. For those moments when we're immersed in a tickle fight, or having a dance party, it's 100% joy. And cooing with Donovan and seeing his beautiful smile and personality develop is amazing. So why am I going back to work? Why am I leaving them, five days a week, to bring in money that we don't need? Yes, if I don't work we will struggle a bit, but it's not impossible. It's an opportunity. But I'm afraid of two things. One that without daycare the kids will not be well-rounded. That somehow I'm not a good enough influence to prepare them for their future schooling. Funny as I type that it I feel like I'm being hard on myself. But where's my confidence to shoot down these doubts and lock them away?
And then, when I do finally go back to work, I can't fathom being able to accomplish all of my tasks and execute them as well as I had in the past. How will I stay on top of things when I'm worried about picking up the kids on time? And how will I dispel the concerns that the kids miss me too much while I'm away. It's distracting me now, and I'm sure it will only get worse once I'm away from them every day. If I had a different job, maybe worked for a company that understood work-life balance, perhaps I'd think differently.
So I'm left with this overwhelming fear that I'm not doing something right. If I stay home with the kids, they'll somehow suffer from lack of social involvement and a tired mommy. But if I go to work, they'll miss me and I won't be able to give them or work the focus they truly deserve. Confidence isn't something I can just decide I have. It's not just being sure of myself and my decisions, it's not fearing failure if I'm wrong. I think I've abused the question mark enough for one post. I know things will be clear with time, but in the interim, I really need to work on my confidence.

6 weeks +1

I did it. I got out there and pounded pavement unplugged for 45 minutes. It was my first real run since Thanksgiving 2011, and I did it without my headphones. I've been looking forward to the first race for quite some time. I didn't feel right  about running while pregnant, but I made sure I walked and kept fit.
While it felt great to get out there, it did feel a bit discouraging to feel like a first time runner again. Before I had Izzy I ran a half marathon and I was so proud of my accomplishment. Two kids later, it felt like the first time I ran a lap around my high school track. Instead of letting the challenge of getting back in running shape get to me, I'm choosing to be excited about setting new goals and surpassing them all over again. Getting to do it all over again means getting to reset the clock. I'll always have the memory of my past accomplishments, but this post baby runner's world means I can enjoy running a mile straight for the first time all over again. I can choose to feel the thrill of running my first race after the baby. I can kick some of my bad habits (like running with a crutch, er I mean headphones) from my past. Hopefully switching gears and focusing on the excitement of being a "new runner" will help get me over the hurdle of my past. It'll be tough to leave the antagonizing wishes to be running as far as my friends. But hopefully with each mile I run, I'll be further from the "runner I used to be" and closer to "being a runner" again.

Just some personal stats that I hope will keep me motivated:
149lbs
3.3 miles - 46 minutes
3 min warm up
1min run - 2 min walk
7 min cool down uphill