You’ll find no greater proponent of dads raising their kids than me. I champion their efforts and celebrate their successes. I even ran a Stay-At-Home Dads group for a while. There are only two elements of parenting that biology prevents us guys from doing — birthing and lactating. And as a result, there are few times when us guys feel more helpless than when our children are being born and when they’re sucking the life out of mom.
Childbirth passes quickly enough. This is relative, of course, and easy to say as the person not trying to push another human out of a really-too-small-hole-for-something-like-that. Jen labored for about 18 hours with Joshua. I say “quickly” and I get a Look. But my point is that it’s a one-time event per child and then it’s over forever. Our stress as dads ebbs and flows but once on that one. But nursing… hoo boy. That’s neither quick nor a one-off.
Watching your baby try to nurse for the first time is to wonder, really, how the hell our species is still here. Babies are wired to do exactly two things when they’re awake — eat and cry. And yet, the first time doing what their bodies and mom’s are supposed to do is like watching somebody trying to perform small engine repair in the dark without any previous training. It’s clumsy, awkward, marked by numerous false starts, fumbling, anxiety, frustration, and getting a piece of your body trapped by moving parts you can’t completely control. If your baby does this in the hospital after being born, the nurses and/or lactation consultants celebrate the tiniest successes like V-E Day. A couple drops down baby’s gullet and the party is ON. The expectation is that both baby and mom will grow in skill and decrease in frustration over time. While generally true, it is not a linear function by any means.
Harper has gotten pretty good at it. Joshua was amazeballs at it. Jack… well, he was no better at it than he is at eating now. To watch Jack eat is to see an amoeba eat in large scale — he slowly absorbs his food, shedding plenty of crumbs along the way. Here is what we expect it to look like as an adult.
Give or take.
Breast milk is a fascinating thing. Beyond its myriad health benefits for both baby in the eating and mom in the making, it carries all kinds of taboos as well. For example, a grown man wouldn’t have an issue knocking back a glass of milk from a cow or even a goat, but the idea of a glass of human breast milk is both unappetizing and somewhat creepy. That doesn’t stop everybody, of course. For example, one can buy a cookbook filled with recipes all using human juice.*
I’m personally of the stance that breast milk is meant for the baby, so I don’t really care to imbibe. However, I did come to accidentally try some recently. While Harper’s diet was being tweaked, monitored, and regulated, Jen continued pumping breast milk with the idea that Harper might eventually return to nursing, or barring that, that the milk could be donated. Jen frequently bagged up the milk she pumped, but I did on occasion as well. As I was making dinner one night, Jen got a phone call just as she brought the milk into the kitchen to be bagged. I volunteered to bag it up as I had a bit of downtime during my cooking. Now, I’m a taste-as-you-go kind of cook, so I somewhat instinctively taste samples of whatever might end up on my spoons, fingers, and so on. In the process of bagging up the milk, I dribbled a small bit on the back of my hand. Without thinking about it in the least, I took a lick.
The thing is, breast milk is pretty darn good. I’ve not had any since, nor do I plan to, but I see the appeal. It’s sweet, like coconut milk, earthy like goat’s milk, and very smooth. It has a not unpleasant smell, though it smells like it’s right on the edge of spoiling without actually doing so.
Babies don’t know any better, of course. They haven’t sampled the world’s culinary pleasures and don’t even have the teeth to try. But they know milk. They can smell it, and even immediately after birth, they can crawl up their mom’s torsos to latch on to the milk faucets. And like all things having to do with moms and babies, it has a name — the breast crawl.** When Harper switched to formula, one of her doctors told us that formula is designed to not smell or taste as good as breast milk so that the baby will prefer nursing if the option exists. I think he undersold this difference as Jen’s breast milk smells light and somewhat flowery and Harper’s formula smells like a fish market in July.
Obviously, I want whatever is best for my kids. If it’s breast milk, cool; if it’s formula, ok. I’ll do what I’m told by her team of doctors who also have her well-being in mind, if not our bank account’s. I like giving her a bottle, whether it’s full of one or the other. There is something peaceful in holding a baby who’s eating. Every now and then her hands will wander and grab one of my fingers and it’s just great. It is less great that eating relaxes her and her bowels, though. Jen and I have each been pooped on a lot and frankly. I do not care for that. But it’s the smallest alcove into which I can fit as a dad wherein I can claim to be providing for my baby’s physical needs. This is as nature intended it. I have no complaints about it. Once she transitions to solid foods, I’ll be cooking for her for the next 17-ish years, so what’s a few months?
*In addition to breakfast, lunch, and dinner recipes, there is a section for cocktails. The White Russian is worth noting.
**There is a vast trove of names for things having to do with babies that are like codewords for the mom and dad crowd. Despite humanity having (somehow) survived for thousands of years without coming up with parent-specific jargon, it proliferates like dandelions in my yard these days.
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article sponsered by Northern Michigan certified lactation consulting and Mother Hubbards Country Cupboard
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