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Becoming A Doula

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There it is. I am thinking of becoming a doula.

My motivation for wanting to become a doula is my own birth experience.

Giving birth naturally was the crowning (no pun intended) moment in my life. It was the first time I understood the depth of my power and connection to the world and nature. It has changed the way I look at myself. I want more women to birth the way nature intended us to. When it comes to childbirth, I believe that women shouldn’t have to secede to man and his machines. Becoming a doula would affect what has become status quo when it comes to childbirth in this country.

Along with Goodnight Moon, my current bedside read.

My inspiration for wanting to become a doula is my mom.

Last year when I was pregnant, I told my mom that we were considering hiring a doula. She quipped, “You don’t need a doula, you’ve got me!”

Yes, I was one of those women who dared to let my mother be privy to one of the most vulnerable, intimate experiences of my life. And I should preface this by saying that my mom tends to wade in the bossy end of the pool (mom, if you’re reading this — I love you but you know it’s true).

I gave my mom clear orders weeks in advance of my due date. “Don’t talk down to the nurses. Don’t question my midwife. And whatever you do, DON’T try and run the show.”

As it turned out, having my mom as part of my birth team proved invaluable.

My mom timed my contractions at home. She held my hair back while I vomited profusely. She rubbed the small of my back in between contractions. She fed me water through a straw. She spoke to the nurses as if they were old college roommates. She kept an eye on Jason, my worried husband. She was in essence, my doula.

A Doula has to have amazing stamina. I know from my own experience that births could last 30 hours, possibly more! Now I’ll admit, I value nothing more than my sleep. And my designer shoe collection. And my son. But I also know I could go the distance. My stamina has shined in the four marathons I have trained for, and completed. The high of life entering the world is quite like the high that comes from pounding pavement for four hours.

Doula work is about providing emotional and physical support, something I know I would be good at. It’s not that far off from my time volunteering with hospice. Or time spent keeping company with homeless animals the night before they’re scheduled to be killed.

They are on complete opposite ends of the spectrum, but birth is strikingly similar to death. Difficult and hauntingly beautiful.

Childbirth. Few other events in the life of a couple bring them together in such a memorable and profound fashion. I would be honored to be a part of that.

My Unexpected Relationship With Breastfeeding

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I feel compelled to write something about my unexpected relationship with breastfeeding. Just this week I read a great, balanced post about breastfeeding on a mommy blog I like, and then today, one of Hollywood’s newest moms, Kourtney Kardashian, blogged that she just stopped nursing her 15 month old son.

I was about eight weeks pregnant when my family began asking if I would be breastfeeding my baby. I say “asking,” but really it was more like telling. They were quick to advise me about the health benefits of breastfeeding and about the bonding, too. I told them that I hadn’t given it much thought, and that I’d need to do my own research.

The truth is that I can’t stand being told what to do. The other truth is that I was scared of breastfeeding. It was one thing to squeeze out a baby the size of a watermelon and it was a whole other thing to put my breasts to work, too. And if I were to be really honest, I was terrified I would fail at it. I was more fearful of failing at breastfeeding then I was of giving birth, but now that I have done both, I can say that I should have feared the latter, more.

Soon after I gave birth to a healthy baby boy we named Mylo, my midwife introduced him to my breasts and we fumbled quite a bit. I was in awe of what just happened, of what just came out of me and I remember wanting to be on my Blackberry more than I wanted to breastfeed. And because Mylo was exhausted from the whole birthing experience I turned him over to his father while I got to work fielding calls, emails, texts and Facebook. What a mistake that was.

While my son did suckle a little bit during his first couple of hours of life, it was not enough. The doctors on the maternity ward informed me the next day that his bilirubin level was dangerously high and that we would have to spend another night.

So while the first night in the hospital was exciting because my husband roomed in with the baby and me, the second night was just me and a cast iron, industrial size hospital breast pump machine. Jason went home to our menagerie and Mylo spent the night in the NICU under the lights. The indescribable high I felt from labor, birth and the fact that this incredible little person had just entered my life was gone, and a cold hard reality about my new found responsibilities had set in.

I woke every two hours to pump my breasts only to fill the NICU bottles with droplets of my colostrum. My nipples were the size of my big toes and I was in pain. At the behest of the NICU nurse I mixed my colostrum with formula to help Mylo’s bilirubin level go down. By the next day it had gone down a little and we were reluctantly discharged.

Breastfeeding my son in the hospital on day two of his life.

Only I am to blame for how breastfeeding began and believe me, I feel great regret about it. But I also think I have redeemed myself. After the bilirubin setback, I made breastfeeding a priority for at least six months.

When we got home from the hospital I walked around the apartment in an ugly nursing bra feeding Mylo almost every hour until my milk came in on the fourth day. I kept a journal. I fed him until he dozed off and until I dozed off. Eat, sleep, feed. That’s all I did. I had new found respect for our four-legged friends.

But breastfeeding did not come without its challenges. The first few weeks of breastfeeding were met with mind-numbing headaches almost the instant as my son began to suckle. My midwife thought I was dehydrated (but I was and always have been a BIG water drinker). I didn’t know how I could possibly continue until Mylo’s pediatrician and my lactation consultant confirmed it was a common hormone-related side effect that would work itself out. Three weeks into breastfeeding the headaches were gone for good.

After my painful experience with the hospital pump, I feared my Medela Swing Breast Pump and put off using it for weeks. (Little did I know that it was 1,000 times gentler than the hospital pump.) Then there was the bucket loads of spit-up to manage and the reflux that Mylo was diagnosed with.

After Mylo’s two-month appointment with the pediatrician I proclaimed to my husband, “two months down, four months to go!” But the challenges that accompany breastfeeding have a way of working themselves out. The pain goes away, you find a rhythm, the baby’s stomach matures and the reflux goes away, the spit up becomes less, and, dare I say… you grow to love it. I sure did.

It also helped that I found comfort and friendship in an army of new moms in my Brooklyn neighborhood who were struggling with nursing issues of their own. I have breastfed Mylo in public with 20 or more women at a time, in movie theaters, in my car, in dressing rooms, at restaurants and even in bars.

A little over a month ago I wrote a post in which I called breastfeeding a 2 1/2 year old “strange.” While I know that is definitely not for me, I do regret saying what I did as I know I offended many women. It was shortsighted of me to put an end date on nursing my son. For someone who didn’t even know if I wanted to breastfeed at all, I have not only passed my six month goal, but I have not set a new one.

People always have something to say about how long is too long or not long enough to breastfeed. I was one of them. But I have learned that this is a personal decision that is best left up to the baby and their mommy, as I have decided to leave it up to my son and me.

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I would be delighted to hear about other mother’s struggles and/or fears about breastfeeding and how they overcame them.

 

February 2011 Takeaways

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At the beginning of this year, in an effort to support my resolve to blog more, I started something new: monthly takeaways. Call it a recap, a reflection or a review. The monthly takeaways are one part blog therapy and two parts a measure of the growth and progress I’ve made in my life (or not). After all, a month left behind means my son is one month older, I am one month older and therefore, hopefully, one month wiser.

My hope is that these takeaways will be fun and interactive and that you will join me by posting about your takeaways from this past month, in the comments below.

So, here goes…

My February Takeaways

1.Your pets’ food and water bowl is best not left on the ground when you have a baby who is on the move.

He's dumped the dog's water bowl on more than one occasion.

2. The world cares more about the salaciousness of Charlie Sheen then they do the atrociousness of Muammar Gaddafi.

3. Turning 33 does not mean I can no longer slurp my spaghetti.

4. I weird people out when I tell them of our plans to birth our future babies at home.

5. With the sad realization that my mom friends are no longer on maternity leave, comes the awareness of new moms pushing their strollers around town together. They are a familiar flock of seagulls who squawk about spit-up, poop and sleep deprivation. The beat goes on, I suppose. :)

Just a few of mine and Mylo's friends.

6. If your pup has blood in her urine, don’t delay. Take her to the vet. ($319 later)

Last month it was blood in her poop. This month it's blood in her urine :(

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So, what are some of your takeaways from this past month? Please share them with me in the comments, I’d love to hear!

Pregnant 1, Trying 2

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My husband Jason and I were out for a rare night with friends on Saturday when we found out that one of the couples who was there are newly pregnant. They are expecting their third child while the woman’s sister and good friend (who were also there with their husbands) are both trying to conceive. The latter is even going the IVF route.

It wasn’t announced that night for a few reasons. One, we were there to celebrate someone’s birthday. Two, she is only five weeks along, and three, the woman who is pregnant was trying to take her sister and friend’s feelings into consideration.

But when you mix joyous news with alcohol it’s bound to not stay a secret for too long.

The drinks continued to flow throughout the night and the news eventually got out. And as I suspected, the sister of the woman who is pregnant was more hurt that she didn’t know. Of course that’s not to say there are not jealousy pangs going on behind closed doors, I am sure there are. In both respects, I can’t blame her.

It was considerate of my friend to be mindful of her sister and friend’s feelings who are trying to conceive but it was more awkward when she was trying to squelch her news then if she had just come out with it.

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I have no idea why some people are so lucky and for others it takes a bit more work. It is without question, unfair, but is there any real way to spare someone’s feelings?

Tell me your thoughts on the subject matter in the comments.

Why I Love Parenthood

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While I do love being a parent, what I’m actually talking about is the NBC TV show on Tuesday nights.

I remember when I saw the first preview for Parenthood last year. I was still watching The Biggest Loser then and the fact that the one hour drama began when TBL ended worked in my favor. A couple of other things worked in my favor then, too. It was PM (pre-Mylo) and I was pregnant with little else going on in my life. I had oodles and oodles of time to watch obese people work out and get hooked on a one hour family drama.

The first reason why I love Parenthood: Peter Krause. He’s Hollywood’s second most underserved actor. (The first one is Michael Keaton.)

Peter Krause as Adam Braverman on NBC's Parenthood.

Although Peter is handsome, it has nothing to do with that. He plays his characters with a kind of purpose and effectiveness that makes it feel like he’s right next to me in my living room. I felt that way about him in his most notable role as Nate Fisher in Six Feet Under and now again, as Adam Braverman in Parenthood.

The second reason why I love this family drama is just that. It’s family drama. The Braverman’s are volatile yet loving.  The fact that someone is always yelling at someone else in the show speaks to me. It’s how my family was and still is, so I suppose that I find comfort in this kind of messy menage.

The third reason why I love Parenthood is they show men cry. Think about it, other than The Bachelor, The Biggest Loser and other reality shows, when do you see men cry on TV?

The fourth reason why I love Parenthood is because they’ve broached vegetarianism in the latest episode of this wonderful show. And they did so beautifully.

Sydney, the daughter of one of the Braverman daughters decided to go veg in last night’s episode. With the number of U.S. adult vegetarians at 7.3 million, or 3.2 percent of the population as reported by the Vegetarian Times Magazine in 2008, it’s any wonder why more shows don’t incorporate this healthy, ethical and emerging way of life.

I’ve always been a big fan of animal welfare issues that are positively portrayed in mainstream media. So the fact that Parenthood had 5.5 million viewers on February 22nd – and that’s NOT including DVRs – had terrific potential to effect the public.

And finally, the fifth reason why I love Parenthood is because it was one of our motivating forces behind getting TiVo. After recently becoming a mom, I no longer have the luxury of watching TV late at night or watching my shows uninterrupted. While The Biggest Loser got the cut, the Braverman’s are here to stay!

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Do you watch Parenthood? Do you love it like I do – why or why not?

Giving With Kiva

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This past Christmas my brother and his wife gave my husband Jason and me a microloan gift to help global entrepreneurs on Kiva.org. If you’re not familiar with what Kiva is, here’s what they say on their website. “Kiva empowers individuals to lend to an entrepreneur across the globe. By combining microfinance with the internet, Kiva is creating a global community of people connected through lending.”

Today I chose someone to lend the microloan gift to and I must say, it felt a little like playing God. Sort of how it feels when I am at the pound choosing a cat or dog to save and invite into my rescue. Ok, maybe not as extreme, but still.

I started my search for the right candidate to lend to by filtering out the men. As a woman who understands how difficult the business world can be, I wanted to lend to a woman. I was also interested in lending to a woman in Palestine, my father’s country. Jason had previously made his microloan gift to a Palestinian man looking to build his computer business.

I have to tell you that after reading the bios of the five or so Palestinian women who were seeking loans, I was not impressed. They were looking to raise money for their husbands’ business, not their own. What’s more, where there should be a photo of the woman, is a photo of their husband with a note that says she is conservative and does not want her picture on the Internet. I respect that she may not want her face plastered all over the web, but I’m not down with the third world, old school, sexist divide that appears evident in request for the loans from the woman for the man. In the end, I was disappointed that I couldn’t help out a woman from my father’s country.

I wound up choosing Kokoe Homefa Messan from Togo, a little West African country near Nigeria, where I was born. And like me, she is married with one child. Her work involves buying second-hand clothing to sell in an open-air market. If you didn’t already know this fun fact about me, I am a huge fan of flea markets and of buying from consignment shops.

In the end, supporting Koke’s used clothing business didn’t just feel good, it felt right.

Koke Homefa Messan sells second-hand clothing in the market of Lomé in Togo.

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Have you given with Kiva and were you also in pursuit of a connection with the person you wanted to lend to?

Teaching Manners to Children Other than Your Own

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Growing up, manners were no small joke in our household. Lessons learned that I used to find embarrassing I am grateful for today. I was taught to not only say hello to the parent of a friend I was calling on the telephone but announce who I was. Friends who called me on the phone and gave the usual, “Is Reedu there?” were answered by my mom with a “Yes,” and a dial tone.

Something else they ingrained in our youthful psyche is to always respect our elders. That not only meant holding open doors, we were also taught to offer up our seat as well. Respect for my elders became more finely tuned years later when I began volunteering with hospice and Alzheimer’s patients in New York City.

While I am grateful that my friends’ parents found me polite and respectful, and that elderly people have had visions of me settling down with their grandsons, I don’t know that I would have taken lightly to such discipline being enforced by anyone other than my folks.

So you could imagine my horror, (not necessarily surprise) when me and my mom were exiting Chipotle today and she snapped at two kids who didn’t hold open the door for me and the monstrosity of a baby stroller that I was pushing.

The kids were 12, maybe 13 years old and were walking in through the first set of double doors as we happened to be walking out of the second set of double doors. They changed their young, adolescent minds at the last second and turned out the door they just came through with the glass making a notable thud against the front tire of my baby jogger.

It was not purposeful so I didn’t think much of it, especially when I saw a package of “bang snaps” in their hands. But my mom thought a whole lot of it and let them know. She marched up to them and cracked, “You don’t close a door on a baby carriage!” Bang. Snap.

Should manners be taught by non-parents?

Up until that point they stood on the busy Brooklyn sidewalk giggling and frantically trying to open the package of bang snaps as if they were about to pull off the prank of all pranks on a friend who was following close behind. But now they stood there dazed and confused, looking around for a baby stroller. (Mind you I was I was halfway down the block at this point.)

Part of me knows that my mom was merely trying to protect me and stick up for me, which I appreciate, as I would certainly do the same for my children. But at the same time, I took issue with the fact that she felt the need to discipline somebody else’s children. I’m not sure I would want a perfect stranger scolding my son should he get caught up in an innocent pubescent moment. And there will be many of them, I am sure.

Maybe it was the zen mood that comes with a satisfying meal at my favorite fast food joint, maybe it was the kids’ look on their faces as they facetiously negotiated the bang snaps, or maybe it was the fact that children today are hopeless. In any case, I didn’t think it was a big deal. I also didn’t think it warranted a lesson from my mom.

My thinking is that kids who purposely close doors on women with baby carriages, or on their elders’ for that matter, will have many of life’s doors close on them. What’s that saying… what goes around comes around?

How do you feel about other people, or even strangers for that matter, teaching manners to your children?

Gov. Cuomo Comes Through for Long Island College Hospital

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I was thrilled to hear the news that New York State will reach into its coffers for the promised $62 million in grants needed to keep Long Island College Hospital alive and running. I wrote in an earlier post, here, about how LICH – the birthplace of my son Mylo and the hospital in my beloved Brooklyn neighborhood – could close as soon as next month after state officials said they were reconsidering the funding.

Cuomo coughs up money for troubled Long Island College Hospital.

The LICH grants are reported to be among more than 100 health grants totaling $683 million that Governor Cuomo has decided to reconsider.

It goes without saying that I am thrilled for the hospital, their staff and anyone who has plans to bring their children into the world there.

Ryno

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Timmy Ryniker 1978 – 1996

I looked around at all those young shocked faces. They had discovered that death could reach into their midst, youth did not shelter them, and they were confused. They had loved him, shared in fun, mischief, adventures. Now they shared the same anguish and stood together, like a flock of frightened birds, contemplating their memories and their loss. This experience would forever live with them, and make them grow, make them better, wiser.

-Kuki Gallmann

Missing Netsy

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February. Such a cold and complicated month. In 1996, when I was a senior in high school, a good friend of mine died in a tragic accident. In 2000, after nine months of battling pancreatic cancer, Netsy left us. Couple these indelible losses with my birthday followed by Valentine’s Day, my father’s birthday, and arctic temperatures outside and maybe you can understand why I call this month cold and complicated.

Today is the day my grandmother passed away in the home where I grew up on Long Island. It is a day ripe with details that I remember so vividly. It was a Sunday night like tonight and my mom and I were driving home from making funeral arrangements as we knew Netsy was close. I was dazed and upset and I missed our exit on the LIE which added an unnecessary 15 minutes on to our trip. When we got home I remember my father cooking in the kitchen – the smell of ginger and garlic permeated the house. I remember going to Netsy and just knowing it was time. I remember calling screaming for everyone to come to her bedside. I just knew she had waited for my mom and me to return and I immediately felt struck by guilt for missing our exit. Minutes later she would struggle to take her last few breaths. I remember Alfy, our cat, jumping up on to her stomach in the minutes after she passed and howling her head off. It was poignant and eerie. I can only think that she must have felt my grandmother’s spirit leave. My mom was speechless and looked like she was going to vomit. She screamed for me to get Alfy off of her.

By late January I had moved my mattress downstairs to sleep by Netsy’s bedside. I would spend one final night there alone, on February 13th. I remember being awoken in the middle of the night by lightning and thunder. I watched through the living room bay windows seemingly aware that Netsy was being greeted by a glory of Gods. I am certain that’s what it was because it was the middle of February, and never before and never again have I seen a storm of that caliber.

It’s been 11 years now and I have made my peace with my grandmother’s passing. She was 76 years old and lead a fascinating and complete life. But it doesn’t mean I don’t miss her. I miss the manicures, the shopping, the lunches and blowing raspberries on her neck. And it certainly doesn’t mean that I don’t lament that she does not know the woman who I have become, and that she will never know my son, Mylo.

There is not a day that goes by that I do not think of Netsy, especially because I am reminded of her now when I look at Mylo. My mom’s best friend was the first person to say so when she saw a photo of him taken the day after he was born and my brother says it all the time. They are right. There is something in Mylo’s chin and mouth area and the way in which he clasps his hands that reminds me of her. I cannot help but think that something larger was at play when Mylo’s physical makeup was being decided. How beautiful that I would be given a son who reminds me of someone I miss terribly.