Shrimpiest Baby on the Block

I've been worried recently that my kid wasn't getting enough to eat - my milk production doesn't seem to be any higher than when she was a newborn, and it's a battle getting baby food into her. She kicks and twists and cries when I try to spoon-feed her. Most of the food ends up in her hair or smeared across her face thanks to her shenanigans. I even buy her the good stuff - organic fruits and veggies - and warm it up so it's as appealing as it can be, and make "mmm!" noises and airplane swoops with the spoon. She fusses and cries the whole time, basically from the moment i lower her into her high chair, to the point an hour or so later when I finally give up and lift her out to put her to bed.

Her 9-month doctor's appointment last week confirmed that she's not eating enough. She weighed only 15 pounds and change - she's in the 5th percentile for her age. The doctor was gentle but firm with me, told me she's "severely underweight" and needs 24 oz. of milk a day, not 14 (my best guess at what she was getting), and three meals, not one. I'm frustrated and disappointed in myself for not being able to make enough milk for her. I nurse her every few hours when I'm home, and I pump while I'm at work, but the supply is chronically low these days. Sometimes I'm hooked up and pumping away for 10 minutes at a time, and there's just nothing coming out. I feel like I should be able to make enough for her, and I'm upset at myself for not being able to.

But there's time for self-flagellation later. My immediate concern was just getting more nutrition into her, so when I left the doctor's office I drove straight to the store to buy a canister of formula - the "liquid poison" that I've had it drilled into me (by books, La Leche League, other moms, and breast-feeding advocates in general) I should never use. I felt like a traitor to the cause as I bought the stuff. Then home to try it out - where the baby promptly refused it. She gagged and retched when I gave her a bottle of formula, and pushed it away from her even though I knew she was hungry.

So I opened a new jar of baby food instead - the peaches kind, that I know tastes good - and spent half an hour fighting to get it into her. She was bobbing and weaving the whole time she was in her high chair so I strapped her into her carseat. I had to pin her arms down so she couldn't swat the spoon away, and pinch her cheeks to get her mouth open, before I could get any food into her mouth. Then she still spat it out, crying furiously. I sat on the floor next to the carseat with my severely malnourished, screaming baby, feeling like a total failure as a mother. Back in the early days, when she was hitting all her milestones early and was a total delight, I loved motherhood so much. Now I feel like it's nothing but fighting, fighting, fighting - to get her to eat, to get her to hold still long enough for me to change her diaper or put her clothes on, to go to sleep at the proper times. I'm worried that lack of nutrition is going to hurt her development (maybe it already has - why isn't she babbling yet, like she is supposed to be doing? or pointing at things? or clapping her hands?). I feel like everyone is going to judge me for having this shrimpy baby - just as, involuntarily, and even unwillingly, I had judgmental thoughts about other mothers I know who made choices for their babies that I thought weren't optimal.

Well, now back to our regularly scheduled self-flagellation... Probably the reasons she's not getting enough milk are 1) I stopped the night feedings and forced her to start sleeping through the night. I think she was probably getting a significant portion of her calories at night. 2) I started jogging and doing sit-ups and trying to eat less, in hopes of reducing the belly bulge, but it also is probably reducing my milk production. I feel better about myself now that I'm sleeping more and exercising, but my baby is suffering for it, and that just makes me feel like a selfish monster. I'm putting my own wellbeing ahead of hers, which as a parent I should never do.

A friend of mine had her baby two days ago. I am so thrilled and happy for her. Yet even as I heard the news (from her dad, telling me that all went well and that she had a natural childbirth) and even as I said, "Oh, that's terrific! I'm so proud of her!" etc. I knew in the back of my mind that this was going to send me into a tailspin later. As it did - over the next few hours, as happy as I felt for my friend, and as glad as I am that she was able to do it, I still felt increasingly awful about having had an epidural when I had my own baby. I wanted to go natural and I set it up as this great thing in my mind. But when I was actually in labor, the pain was so through-the-roof horrifically intense that I felt desperate for relief. I was happy with my decision at first. The baby came out healthy and alert, I was able to deliver her in a state of relative calm (although it still hurt so much as she was coming out that I almost asked them to crank up the epidural), and there were no complications. But over time, as more people I know have babies and succeed in doing it naturally, I can't help feeling that it reflects on them as stronger and better than I am, mentally as well as physically, and I feel wretched for the decision I made. The very first choice I made in my career as a parent, and it was "wrong." Even though I know that if I had a chance to do it all over again, crouching over the edge of the bathtub in the throes of that one awful contraction I would ask again for an epidural, without a doubt. And if there's a next kid, chances are I'd ask for an epidural (i.e., FAIL) again. Outwardly I try to act like I'm confident about my decision and supportive of everyone else's, but internally I'm just frustrated with myself for being weak. My friend can go through life knowing that she did it, that she is strong and amazing, whereas I will always know that when push comes to shove, I'm a wimp. I hate that.

Perhaps things will be better in a couple of weeks. People keep telling me that babies change so fast, whatever is going on won't last long. And maybe by then I'll be able to stop obsessing about the stupid epidural (at least, until the next friend succeeds in going natural).

Willpower

I have been sorely lacking in willpower lately. When the baby naps, all these things that I want to do swim to the fore of my mind - I want to organize the pictures in the album, and pick up that novel I was working on writing two years ago, and get some exercise for Pete's sake before that belly bulge makes itself any more at home, and call the friends I've been neglecting, and watch the rest of the Thin Man movies, and buy sneakers, and maybe even grab my husband and remind him what it was like when we were first married. :)

But instead, I generally carpe opportunity to clean the apartment, which is nice and of course necessary, but never lasts. Or, often, I collapse on the sofa and take a nap. Or, if I can retain consciousness on the pit of sleepiness that is our sofa, I read a K.M. Peyton book and munch. My appetite, particularly for junk food, seems endless these days. I cannot get enough of brownies, potato chips, banana bread with chocolate chips, Girl Scout cookies, Heath candy bars, sugared dried mango slices, bread smeared with Nutella, cream top Brown Cow yogurt, apple crumble, Breyer's vanilla ice cream with the little shreds of vanilla bean in it, strawberries drizzled with honey, etc. It is ridiculous. Every day I wake up and grab my belly flab to see if it is still there, and feel miserable that of course it is, and vow to go on some kind of regimen involving dry toast, tea, and 12 hours in the gym each day. But I'm craving the Nutella before I even get my socks on in the morning. And no matter how bold my resolutions, I give in time and again. My willpower is all spongy like when your brake pads are shot, and the brakes just give under your foot, no matter how hard you stamp down.

Today was a good day though. I got up early and took care of the baby as usual, and the guinea pigs, and myself, in rotation until everyone was fed, clean, and happy for the time being. Then I left her cooing in her playpen and my husband asleep in bed, and went for a run around the track at the local high school. I haven't run since before we got married, I think. I wanted to prove to myself that I could still do it. It was incredibly hard - I wanted to quit over and over again - but I stuck it out, kept running the whole time, until I'd done 12 laps (3 miles). Afterwards I felt so glad. If I can bust out a 5K without even training, in just under half an hour, I can't be in that bad shape. I walked home through the crisp early morning, showered, ate a reasonably healthy breakfast, and started my freelancing job. By 2 pm I'd finished it (a couple days ahead of schedule, which meant I could relax all weekend). I took the baby for a walk, read a book to her, played with her, fed her, put her down for a nap. I baked bread. Then in the evening I worked on the novel, which is a long way from being readable but I'm so, so happy to be making progress on it again. I thought about it the whole time I was running, trying to solve some of the problems with the plot, and managed to work out some of the kinks.

Here's my theory. Being unhealthy (potato chips, relaxing on the couch) feels good. But being virtuous (laps, salad, writing) feels good too. And the longer I go on doing things that are good for me, the easier it is to resist the unhealthy habits. Of course, it's only been one day, but today, glowing from the exercise, I actually wanted to eat oatmeal and not chocolate chips for breakfast. I didn't feel like it was a tremendous effort to exercise my willpower, like I usually do. So I just have to keep it up.