Feeding the Monster
This monster:
Rarr.
Since arriving back from China, Louisette immediately began drinking much more formula. After a little while, it was clear that we’d reached the point where any breastfeeding I did was largely symbolic.
I’ve spent the last week working through my feelings about that – mostly surprise at how desperately I hate breastfeeding at all: I hate that feeding Louisette is a feminist issue, and a constant political fight. I hate the social awkwardness of it all. I hate the feeling of violation I get every single time I breastfeed with anyone (excluding CJ, but including my mum) else in the room, whether I’m covered (which is clumsy, uncomfortable, mean to Louisette, and says, “I’m doing something that needs hiding”) or not. I also hate sitting alone in another room while everyone else is happily eating, talking and having fun. I hate that I have to be seminaked, and it’s cold. I hate not knowing how much she’s had to eat. I hate seeing Louisette frustrated by the whole process. I hate feeling like a mammal rather than a mind and heart and soul. I hate that none of my private parts are private any more. I hate that my breasts aren’t just for decoration. I hate that more than 90% of my clothes don’t fit me. I hate that my breasts are now a stupid shape and they’re only going to get less attractive from now on.
I quite like bigger breasts (to a point – I’m currently DD and slightly alarmed – and I urgently need a new swim top but can’t find one). When I’m not crying or psychotic for lack of sleep, I like the secret exclusivity of something only Louisette and I share. I like that, when all else fails, Louisette is sure to calm down anytime, anywhere if I just feed her.
I don’t give up easily (as you can tell by my 14-year novel-writing “career”), and I didn’t expect breastfeeding to be easy (in fact I was consistently more concerned about breastfeeding than birth), so I’m mostly relieved and glad that the option of breasfeeding has been taken away without my consent*. But I also resent that my choice was taken from me. Because that’s how I roll, and because I don’t like the way so many many women plan to breastfeed and then don’t/won’t/can’t.
One thing is clear: Louisette will never be exclusively breastfed. Which begs the question, “Why bother keeping on going?” It’s an excellent question. For now, at least until I feel less traumatised by the whole thing and can make a calm decision, I do a little bit of breastfeeding most feeds – but only if I’m home and there are no guests. I figure a little bit of breastmilk will still help guard against disease, childhood obesity, and so on.
The whole reason people bottle feed is that it’s (in many but not all ways) easier and more convenient. Which is why I was upset when Louisette began crying in pain during feeds. Breatfeeding hadn’t worked, and it seemed bottle feeding didn’t work either. She would cry in pain, I’d put down the bottle and comfort her (putting her on my shoulder as if to burp her did help), then she’d cry in hunger. I’d give her the bottle again, she’d suck hungrily for maybe ten seconds, maybe a few minutes – and then cry in pain again. And so things would continue for about an hour. Not surprisingly, she wasn’t getting full feeds. I tried a few things that didn’t really help, and then last Thursday a nurse suggested it might be reflux. I was immediately sure she was right, and bought infant gaviscon on the way home. I also bought fast flow teats for our bottles (Louisette is the right age for medium flow, but I guessed correctly that she could handle more) so that it’s easier to get down more milk before the pain starts. I’m still nervous about feeding her, because no solution is perfect all the time, but she usually only cries a little if at all, and now that she’s satisfied at her feeds she’s dropped to five a day.
With all the pain and shame and hurt and crying/screaming associated with feeding Louisette so far, I was delighted to discover (based on age and observation of physical skills) that she will be starting on solid foods in just a few weeks. A whole new world of mess and adventure and, eventually, normal independent eating.
This picture is already out of date (because we now feed her sitting up), but in a blink of an eye bottles will be entirely a thing of the past. So it’s both cute and historic.
Louisette is very enthusiastic about practising standing up. She’s not a newborn any more. I love her as she is, but every day she is more fascinating and delightful than the day before. She has suddenly started laughing – sometimes with a lot of random vocalisation a lot like a newborn-style cry, and sometimes with a single delighted squeak.
*To be fair, eating a healthy diet – rather than chowing down on masses of chocolate each day – definitely had a negative effect on my milk production. If I’d known I’d be so fat for so long, things might have been different. I still can’t wear my wedding ring, and I’m not happy, Jan. Next time I think I’ll accept in advance that I will need a full new fat-lady wardrobe for at least six months.
Activate your alliteration addiction
See this?
It’s bok choy with butter and basil.
Delicious AND intellectually satisfying.
Husbands that help
It’s strange that when a mother talks about a good husband, she says things like, “He helps a lot.” I say it myself all the time. It’s strange for two reasons:
First, it is strange that somehow everything to do with raising a child falls on the mother’s shoulders, and the father just “helps” when he could be bothered. And he somehow deserves enormous credit for everything he does – whereas the much larger amount that SHE does is simply her job.
Second, it is strange that a father’s love and attention for his own child is not considered as a grand thing in its own right – it’s merely an addendum on the mother’s love and attention – as if she is the real parent, and he is not.
It is a beautiful thing that, with the exception of feeding, Louisette is mostly CJ’s responsibility during evenings and weekends. In those times, CJ is the “real” parent and I am the helper – if I volunteer to change a nappy or to run downstairs to replace the dummy in Louisette’s mouth, CJ thanks me without irony. Because in those times, it’s his job – not mine. I noticed this phenomenon the other day, and I’m so glad.
In the mornings, he gives me the gift of ten minutes – enough time to cram in breakfast and brush my teeth if I haven’t had the chance – which makes a huge difference too.
Best of all, he actually spends time with Louisette without my supervision.
Steamy Valentine
From 2D goggles, where there are many adorable comics featuring Lovelace and Babbage (if you don’t know who they are, you haven’t been around steampunk long) – your Valentine’s Day card:
PS Nerds will love this (and all the other xkcd comics, although one must be extremely nerdy in particular ways to get every single one).
How to write a sequel
Here, via John Scalzi, is one woman’s cunning plan for dealing with sequelitis. She makes a lot of sense. For example:
3. The plot deals with an entirely new problem. You can often pick detective novels up mid-series because each detective story is a self-contained plot. They start with a new question and then have to solve it, tidily, by the end of the book. Shades of Milk and Honey had a Jane Austen plot structure so the big question there was: Who is she going to marry? That’s no longer a question. Since I’ve sent [person A and B] to the Continent in 1815, the big question in Glamour in Glass is: What are they going to do when the Battle of Waterloo happens?
A lot of fantasy writers (myself included) write book two (or perhaps two and three) of their fantasy trilogy while waiting to hear back from publishers about the first book. The fundamental problem with this is that book one may never sell – and then you’re screwed.
Or perhaps, if you write very carefully, not.
PS Although I think it’s solid advice above, I also think she may have gone too far, since the first book is a romance. That technically makes the two books different genres.
Temeraire: Tongues of Serpents
Aussie Aussie Aussie! Oi! Oi! . . . . oh.
The book takes place in Australia, but it certainly doesn’t make you want to go back in time and visit. The rest of this review is at Comfy Chair, where I get paid for it.
ABC Sunday Live
ABC Classic FM radio station puts on free music performances every Sunday and broadcasts them live at 3pm. The performances move around Australia, and April is Canberra’s month. Last Sunday CJ and I went to this performance by members of the ANU jazz course, led by Mike Price on guitar (the picture below was taken from the ABC Live site).
I find jazz really challenging in much the same way as listening to Gamelan music (which uses a five-note scale): the rules are just. . . different. But it’s not difficult to fall for the mellow spontenaeity of jazz: the round sound of the trumpet; the smooth groove of a good bass; and the swinging singing of a sax*. The guitar is my favourite instrument, and it’s always good to see it wielded with such skill. I especially liked the original pieces scattered among a whole lot of Miles Davis.
Drums miss out a bit in jazz, I think – at least with this selection. I love a good rock and roll drum solo, but in jazz most of what the drummer does is to keep time (while everyone else seemingly ignores them). Or maybe I just don’t get it 🙂
*I like rhymes and alliteration, yes.
One-third of her life in pictures
Here is the first month of Louisette’s life, and here is the second.
Here is the third:
As CJ pointed out, she has spent one-sixth of her life travelling.
One last adventure
On our final full day in Beijing, CJ and I sought out a restaurant we’d liked on our first visit to Beijing back in 2010. We took the subway, and cunningly got off one station early due to a subconscious desire to make the day more epic.
For future reference, this is what the restaurant actually looks like (plus a sign taken after turning 90 degrees left in the street facing the restaurant):
CJ and I call the restaurant either “The DongBei restaurant” (about as specific as saying, “The Chinese restaurant”) or “The pumpkin chips restaurant”, neither of which is especially useful.
Nonetheless, we found it and we ordered (along with pumpkin chips, naturally – easy to recognise by their picture despite the lack of any English in the menu) something that looked like either duck or chicken. It arrived startlingly quickly.
“Well,” said CJ, “it’s chicken.”
“Oh?” I said.
“I can tell by the head. And the foot.”
It was served cold, and with all the bones intact – much as if it had been left on a table for a while, then passed through a paper shredder. It was a boy chicken, and it looked at me funny.
I couldn’t handle it, and decided to order another dish.
“One with a mix of meat and vegetables,” said CJ.
I flipped through the pages frantically, as Louisette’s cries of hunger grew increasingly strident. When I spotted something that looked like it might be pork but was definitely beans, I ordered it.
It wasn’t pork. It was beef (well, probably. It’s hard to tell with Chinese beef, which is horrid even when it’s actually made from a cow). And the beans were not beans. Oh no, dear reader. They were chillis.
The pumpkin chips were a little undercooked.
The rice we ordered never came.
In Winter 2010 we always enjoyed the free tea served on every table. When I asked for tea, the waitress said they “didn’t have any”.
So that was our last proper Chinese meal. Oh, China. You always come through when we need surprises.
The following day we left on an even more epic three-part journey home – pausing only to say goodbye to Bonnie’s family and to pee on Louisette’s grandma (Louisette did the peeing; we said the goodbyes). I could write about the journey, but the only important thing now is that we arrived home in the end.
What’s wrong with this picture?
Well, not wrong exactly. Just. . . something.
If no-one guesses correctly, I’ll post the answer next Monday.
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And the answer is. . . . . .
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The baby is not Louisette: It’s our niece.
The three most likely people to get it right were Bella (the baby’s mum, who didn’t notice), Bella’s husband, and my own mum (who is constantly telling me how much they look alike, and who has several hundred photos of each).
Congratulations to Bonnee, for guessing wildly but correctly, and to CJ’s Mum, who got it right away.
Here’s a similarly oriented picture that *IS* Louisette.
