Mommy Proof #3: My Best, My Breast, My Baby, My Business, Our Bond

Mommy Proof #3: Your parenting decisions are made for your family. No advice is needed.

A few weeks ago, I posted a picture of my son and I during a nursing session on a social network site. Nothing too controversial, most mammals produce milk for their babies. The picture did not have any nipple or areola sightings. My son was not standing up in the chair while I struck a "defiant" pose. Yet, there was a slight controversy surrounding the picture as it went viral, the caption under that sweet picture.

"My Best, My Breast, My Baby, My Business"

I did not post this picture on my own personal site, but on a pro-breastfeeding page. I had no idea that it would be received with anything but support. Most if not all of the negative comments were deleted, but here is the general consensus. (Paraphrased):

"After one year of age, breastfeeding is not needed. What is she trying to prove?"

"I could NOT nurse my child, so I didn't do my best?"

And my personal favorite:

" 'MY best, MY breast, MY baby, MY business!' Who is she doing it for, the baby or herself?"

What my breastfeeding picture's caption meant was that, FOR MY FAMILY, it was my best. My last pregnancy was filled with dread of the unknown. I didn't think I would be able to breastfeed, because I can not pump. AT ALL. The doctors were pretty sure he would be born before 30 weeks due to complications. When I was six months along, the doctors told me that there was little chance of survival. Without an invasive procedure that would have to be repeated and came with its own risks, this bouncing, kicking baby boy would die. We found about a less invasive, experimental procedure that we could try. Almost three months later, I gave birth to a healthy baby boy.

After five months of being unsure if this baby would be an addition to our family, I was left at an emotional standstill. I was so focused on grieving that I never imagined what would happen if he survived. I forgot to bond with this child. I was so sure I wouldn't have the opportunity to ever nurse, I did not prepare to do it. My milk took a whole five days to come in while this baby screamed day in and day out. Who was this child that is suckling from my breast? Maybe I should offer him a bottle? Would he finally be quiet?

The night before I was determined to quit nursing, I sat on the floor crying. Deflated, exhausted, and stressed, I told my mother how I could NOT do this. I felt no desire to nurse this child. I just didn't WANT to do it. The baby lay wailing in his bassinet, ready for another feeding. Instinctively, I reached for him. As I held him to my breast, I heard a gulp. Then another milk filled swallow and another and another and another, until I was finally holding a milk drunk baby with a satisfyingly full tummy.

I looked up in triumph. I did it, just as I had nursed my other three children. That night, I held him as he slept falling in love with every little breath. For me, nursing him made him real to me. It helped me bond with him. I couldn't take care of his needs while he was in my uterus, but I could now. I could offer him my best which, in this case, was a bond.

Mommy Proof #2

Mommy Proof #2: If your child suffers from any sort of injustice, you will feel it, breathe it, and consume it until justice is met.

My daughter comes home from school with a story about what evils the world bestowed upon her that day. It may be someone disliked her natural hair. It may be that someone hated her shoes. One day, someone didn't like her. Another day, her shirt wasn't the right color. Then, a girl told her that her mother was fat. (Don't worry. I didn't take it personal. After four kids, my self esteem will survive as long as I suck in my stomach while I walk past the fourth grade.)

Sometimes you wonder, what happened to empathy, compassion, acceptance, or tolerance? Sure there will be common childhood jinx, pranks, disagreements, or misunderstandings. But when my fourth grader came home and asked me if n-word meant black person, it made me think. Just what is school teaching our children? Another child that had some learning difficulties was dubbed as "dumb," "slow," or "stupid." The little girl, who wore pants that were too small due to economic issues that were out of her hands, was nicknamed "gay pants."

For a while, I didn't know what to do. I didn't know how to help. What do you say to a child that will toughen them up, but still leaves them to remain hopeful in the rest of humanity? I guess all we can do as parents is try to teach our children right from wrong. Help them to develop compassion in an cruel world. For now, I show her by example. As misguided as it may be, I pray that one day I do get my point across and she will find justice in an unjust world. Oh, yeah, and I tell her those other kids are just jealous.

Mommy Proof #1: When your child overcomes any setback, you begin to feel like you can succeed at anything....

A little more than five years ago, I was two days overdue and wondered if this child would ever evacuate my uterus. What could I expect? What is IUGR anyway? Google it. You will see the dreaded school yard word that makes you shudder to your very core. "RETARD." Well, intrauterine growth retardation to be exact. You have never heard of it? Neither did I.

Intrauterine growth retardation is a big, fancy way of saying that your baby is not growing properly in utero. The reason could be almost anything. Inadequate placenta? Maybe. I remember thinking even my placenta is inadequate. What is going to be the effect on the baby? Will he ever grow properly? If his body didn't grow properly, what about his lungs, organs, heart? What about his brain? What will he be able to do? What if he isn't able to do anything? How will I cope? Will my marriage survive? How will our family survive? What if?

Forty weeks. That's how long it takes to grow a human baby. Forty weeks and two days, that is two days extra. Forty weeks and two days is how long I was pregnant before I was induced. Forty weeks and two days is how long I waited to have my third child, my first son. Forty weeks and two days for an IUGR baby equaled four pounds, thirteen ounces and seventeen and a half inches long. He was so tiny and so fragile. It made me wonder. If his body didn't develop properly, what else didn't?

We saw differences between our older children and Jax early on. He didn't crawl as early as they did. He was content to just be, sitting for hours at a time. He was active, but not as active. I could cuddle him for hours without him ever fighting to pull away, to get down, to just be. The girls were the pictures of health compared to him. I spent countless hours in the pediatricians' office, specialists' waiting rooms, and emergency rooms. I waited for doctors, nurses, x-ray technicians to complete test after test. It was always the same thing. He would recover. He would be fine. Ten days later, there would be another round of antibiotics, steroids, and doctor visits. Eventually, they figured out that he was allergic to any and everything airborne. He was asthmatic. He had fluid around his ear drum that impaired his speech. After surgery to remove his enlarged tonsils and adenoids and put tubes into his ears, he was a different child.

My little boy could hear. He began to speak. He could run without stopping to cough and catch his breath, but something was not quite right. His speech was not on par with what I was used to with his sisters. He stopped progressing with using new words. By age three, I was convinced that something was not connecting. He didn't know his colors. He couldn't remember his shapes. He couldn't copy a straight line. He had great difficulty copying or tracing a shape. He had a hard time remembering what letter, color, number, or shape we went over incessantly that day. We had him in speech therapy. We mentioned it to his pediatrician and therapist. We saw the frustration in his face when he couldn't remember the name of the color, letter, shape, or number we went over ten minutes before. These were all things that his sisters knew by an earlier age.

It wasn't until he was almost four that I began to wonder how this would effect his life. Yes, he would learn to spell his name. He would learn to write it eventually, but how would this effect his self-esteem and confidence? How would his delay effect his ability to connect with his peers? I decorated his room with an Alphabet comforter, hoping that he would dream of the letters after we went over them. My nephew donated his collection of 300 cars. We would count them, group them by colors, make shapes with them. My other children were not eligible to attend pre-K classes. It wasn't needed. Jax was in the room for five seconds before I realized that not only would he be accepted, he would actually need it. Desperately. I worked with him to no avail during the summer with phonics, number and letter recognition, shapes and colors. The first time he said the color blue when he picked a blue block, I teared up. When he recognized his name on the Wii, I cried.

Five long years later, he wrote his name for the first time. Painstakingly exact with every stroke his marker made. Two years after his sisters first did it. One year after he learned to spell it. He did it. An hour later, I put my feelings of triumph into words. My name is Jenn and it's nice to meet you.