The blessings of . . . mastitis?!

Warning: Dad, if you are reading this, Stop Now. I know that you would like to believe that we ordered an infant from a cabbage patch, and a stork conveniently delivered a baby girl to our home nine months later, and with a sprinkling of water and a dose of sunshine, she thrived and grew and blossomed into a delightful garden flower. But let me remind you of the time we saw the equine students artificially inseminate a horse or the many times we witnessed the cows in the milking parlor on your aunt's farm. Because the conception, survival, and nurturing of your grandchildren involves most of the same principles also witnessed in the animal kingdom. And that includes the crusty, dried-up leftover umbilical cord that took weeks to part from Harper's darling navel. It's still oozing, by the way. You've been warned.

Breast-feeding. I know, I know, it's a beautiful thing. I, the proud milk-bearing mother of my sweet gift from God, have the honor and privilege of bonding with my daughter in a unique way. I, sore-chested and well-endowed, am the sole provider for my baby girl's health and crucial weight gain. I, crack-nippled and oh-so-saggy, am chained to my daughter's cry or an obnoxious breast-pumping device every 2-3 hours around the clock. And as if all that wasn't glamorous enough, the exhausting efforts of my upper-half ultimately led to a terror that left me bedridden and downright ugly for most of a week.

Mastitis.

It sounds like the title of a cult horror flick, doesn't it?

But this is real life horror, y'all. Mastitis takes precious bonding between mother and child and turns it into a painful, aching, infected, and downright dreadful experience.

But thanks to the magic of forty green capsules and the grace of the good Lord, my mastitis was blasted from my body in a week's time. Thank you, Jesus!

But guess what? And you won't believe what I am about to say. The mastitis turned out to be a blessing.

Yes, I said a blessing. In all seriousness, I learned a lot about nursing because of the infection. You see, I was required to nurse through the mastitis, and in an effort to rid my body of the infection for good, I revisited my grad school days and hopped on the research train. I read and read and read about nursing, latching, milk supply, and anything else related to da boob. Forget La Leche League, I am a breast-feeding extraordinaire!

Now there is no guarantee that the mastitis will never return, but I now have a much better idea of how to prevent it. And if I suspect that I am getting a blocked duct, I have an arsenal of weapons for nipping it in the bud before it gets worse.

And because my dad is a dad and wants to remedy all my problems, even those that have nothing to do with carburetors or accelerator pumps, he did offer me some help through all this. (It's important to note that my Dad has an extensive background in agricultural sciences.) But because he would never speak to me directly about issues concerning my upper-half, he called my mom and had her deliver the following information. First he assured me that cows often get mastitis. Then he went on to say that farmers often treat the cows with a warm compress and medication (medication that he even offered to get for me, implying that I could take cow pills?)

Thanks, Dad. That really helped. As if I didn't already feel like a first-rate dairy cow. Now I might as well sprout udders and wait, what's that?

Moo.

Non-Maternal Instincts

Another blast from my past (Nov, 2008). Instead of writing, I'm sprawled out on the couch, sippin' on Diet Coke and munchin' on Cheetos. {in my dreams}

Because week-old leftovers for lunch is better than no lunch at all.

When I found out that I was pregnant with my son, I was in utter denial. We were not expecting to get pregnant, not trying to get pregnant, and in fact, we were trying not to get pregnant. But I have learned that absentmindedness plus carelessness equals baby, and ready or not, baby was on his way.

So to be ready, I became a slave to Google. I joined every parent preparing webscription in addition to tracking the growth and development of my microscopic bambino via baby planning websites. And while I read endlessly about what to expect, eight months into parenthood, I am still far from prepared to be a parent. And I now realize that reading and researching are hardly enough as I failed to learn one important life-changing element about motherhood: cold lunch.

Yes, folks, that is my new reality: cold lunch. And by lunch, I mean any food consumption that occurs between ten in the morning and four in the afternoon, because as parenting will have it, lunch is never a scheduled or guaranteed event. It might consist of Mexican leftovers out of a Styrofoam container, or a frozen TV dinner that has occupied the far back corner of our pathetic freezer, or remnants of finger foods that are sitting on my son’s Bumbo tray.

But as each day is a new day, I wake up enthusiastically and optimistically pronouncing “today I am going to make myself lunch!”

Let me share with you what lunch is like on those rare days that I actually attempt to fix it.

Pull out ingredients for grilled ham-and-cheese sandwich. Baby starts fussing. Sing Hokey Pokey while clamoring around in the kitchen looking for frying pan and spatula (the former is in dishwasher – dirty, the latter is in the sink from my husband’s attempt at breakfast – also dirty). Baby now fussing loudly. Sing louder in the hopes that baby will be so shocked at my obnoxiously loud and out-of-pitch vocals that he’ll stop fussing. Temporarily abort lunch mission. Tend to fussy baby.

Return to kitchen to prepare and cook sandwich. Phone rings. Answer phone (why did I answer the phone?). Realize sandwich is burning, cuss while speaking to very important person on other end of the phone, drop phone because now I’m flustered, and realize baby is now wailing. Wrap up phone conversation. Tend to fussy baby. Back to kitchen after baby settles. Flip and cook non-burnt side of sandwich. Baby fusses, again. This time turn off burner as to not burn other side of sandwich. Grab baby, and back to kitchen with baby in tow. Realize not good idea to fry sandwich while baby reaches toward hot stove. Decide to abort cooking and eat half-burnt-half-uncooked sandwich as is.

Sit down (if I’m lucky) to eat sandwich. Baby spits up. Back to kitchen for dishcloth to clean baby. Pour self glass of Diet Coke while in kitchen. Back to table to eat sandwich. Baby knocks over drink. Back to kitchen for dishtowel to clean up spill. Back to sandwich. First bite – crispy, smoky, room temperature, and undercooked. Say to-hell-with-it and back to kitchen for no fail meal – potato chips.

And I only have one child.

Dear Lord of all things good and yummy,

Let’s be honest. I don’t need a hot ham-and-cheese sandwich. I’ve got plenty of meat on my bones to survive two weeks stranded atop a snow-covered mountain (thank you very much). I’m merely adjusting to a slight misconception that I had before the birth of this roly-poly lunch-delayer. See, I thought that I would be enjoying delicious and nutritious lunches that I prepared fresh and promptly at noon while baby is quietly nuzzled in his crib allowing me time to sit in my neat and tidy house while reading one of my devotionals highlighting scriptures relating to peace, serenity, and blissful mommyhood. Somehow lunchtime at my house doesn’t look quite like that (assuming a time for lunch presents itself at all). But I am patient, Lord. I don’t have to eat promptly at noon. I could easily wait until two or even three, if that is a more optimal time for fresh cooked pasta and grilled asparagus. And until we work out this cold-lunch dilemma, I thank you for preservatives and all things pre-packaged, especially those found in aisle eight (better known as the candy aisle).