California with kids - Santa Barbara
I’ve been wanting to put together a post about our California trip since we got back, but I honestly didn’t know where to begin. I decided to split it up, otherwise it would’ve been way too long. We’re starting off with Santa Barbara (and a tiny bit of Solvang)!
We went to the US to visit my husband’s family, and to be honest I wasn’t super excited about this trip at first. The short flights we’ve done in Europe recently were frankly overwhelming. Our toddler decided to use us (mostly YY) as punching bags from take off until about 10 minutes before landing, when he would inevitably pass out - leaving us beaten and a little bit shaken up. As you can imagine, I was therefore a tiny bit intimidated and not exactly looking forward to a 12-hour flight with our adorable little monster(s). Experience so far has taught me to keep my hopes waaay low, so my intention was to go into this trip entirely free of expectations. No plans = no frustration if they don’t work out, right?
Long story short: I’m so glad I was wrong. Because overall, the kids were total champs and we actually got to do a lot. I hadn’t been to the US in 11 years (basically since I moved to Europe), but California has this easy-breezy 90s vibe that felt very familiar and extremely easy to get used to.
View from Shoreline park, as I tried to spot whales and dolphins
For the first two weeks we stayed mainly in Santa Barbara with the in-laws, and it’s one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been. My husband grew up in this little slice of paradise, and in the 10 years we’ve been a couple we hadn’t yet gone there together. I jokingly told him that’s because he knew I wouldn’t want to leave… No, seriously. I grew up visiting the US almost every year, but Southern California remained a bit of a beautiful mystery to me. And this trip has left me wanting to discover so much more of it.
The Santa Barbara courthouse
View from the Santa Barbara courthouse
Discovering places is great, but discovering places through food is so much better. Eating in California can be a real treat. Since we’re very much landlocked in Munich and any seafood we can get our hands on is inevitably frozen, I was yearning for some of the fresh stuff.
My favorite restaurant meal in Santa Barbara was hands-down the one at Brophy Bros. It was definitely worth the 20-minute wait with a toddler on full meltdown mode, after he had just accidentally lost his last pacifier on the pier water. My one criticism? The clam chowder isn’t served in sourdough bread. Womp womp.
The cold seafood starter mix from Brophy Bros, which YY and I easily shared as our main dish. In the back, an almost finished plate of clam chowder which S loved and almost made him forget his pacifier.
A heartbroken S after losing his pacifier.
While Brophy Bros’ was the best meal we had, the best overall find for me was without a doubt Blenders In The Grass. This was another mythical place which YY would incessantly tell me about, so I was really looking forward to meeting it in person. The Blenders’ concept is to serve “fresh, quick, nutritious, delicious” shakes, and boy to they deliver. The possibilities are endless. I made it my personal mission to taste a different one every day while we were in Santa Barbara. My favorite? Peanut butter. All. The. Way.
Still speaking of food, I was also finally introduced to Trader Joe’s! And I was genuinely heartbroken to said goodbye to it by the end of the trip. We literally went from a Trader Joe’s to LAX on our way back to Munich.
We found happiness at the Santa Barbara Trader Joe’s
While we’re still on this topic, coffee also counts as food, right? Maybe not with/for the kids, but one of our favorite things in the world is to explore cool coffee shops wherever we go. That’s something I’m not willing to compromise as a mom. We’ve been raising kids in coffee shops since 2017, and this trip to California was no exception. And honestly, Santa Barbara did not disappoint.
Although definitely pricier than what we’re used to in Munich, Handlebar Coffee Roasters is a cycling-inspired coffee shop (if you can’t tell by their name) that has some of the best coffee I’ve ever had. It easily beat every coffee shop we went to in LA. The staff is also very willing to look the other way and not scold you if you must change your baby’s explosive diaper, which I’m honestly grateful for since there were no changing tables in sight (few things are more anxiety-inducing to a parent than a baby covered in poop and no place to change them). Anyhow. To this day, we’re dreaming of their nitro coffee and regret not having brought back more of their cool merch.
The nitro coffee at Handlebar is a true work of art.
Another cool coffee shop is Dune Coffee Roasters, aka The French Press. I wasn’t as into their nitro, but the iced matcha latte was seriously impressive (and yes, I realize I sound very stereotypically true to my generation with that statement).
Cool wall at The French Press on State Street
I know you’re probably here to read more about actually handling kids while traveling, so here we go. Full disclosure: Since we were staying with the in-laws and YY’s sisters were also around, we shamelessly made full use of the support we don’t normally have in Munich. That is to say that for many of these outings, 2 year old S stayed at home for naps and playtime with his slightly older cousin. L on the other hand, who turned 6 months during our trip, was often with us since I was (am) still breastfeeding her full-time. That said, carrying an agreeable, nap-anywhere-anytime 6-month old around is much easier than a toddler. It all changed when we went to LA and had full custody of S once again, though.
That isn’t to say that we didn’t see our son for days. We sure did some fun activities with him too, like going to the Santa Barbara Zoo.
S with his aunt at the zoo, watching the elephants.
We were also in town for the famous “Fiesta”, which between us…. Was probably the most shamelessly cultural-appropriating event I’ve ever attended. I unfortunately really wasn’t very into it (but of course I don’t judge those who are, to each their own). The kids are too young to care about such matters and definitely had fun at the parade, so I guess that’s the silver lining. I’m just not sure I’d personally go back for it.
S covered in confetti at the parade. He had glitter stuck on his scalp for days after this. Our ongoing joke was that he’d go to college with it.
While in Santa Barbara, we also went to the beach - once. But still, I'm happy I got my ocean fix. We went to Hendry’s Beach, which in hindsight wouldn’t have been my first choice since it’s a very much dog-friendly beach. This meant cute doggos running around, but also having a dog run onto our towels and eating our food (while the owners watched, unfazed) as well as peeing all over the sand which our kids would subsequently, inevitably, eat.
S covered in urine-soaked sand
We also had a really great time at the Santa Barbara Natural History Museum. S was legitimately interested, which is a first for us. There are so many cool activities for toddlers, we could’ve easily made it a longer visit (but then again hunger spoke louder). I do wish we’d had more time for the planetarium.
YY and S working hard at the Natural History Museum.
Finally, we also went to Solvang for a day. Have you heard of it (I hadn’t)? It’s the “Danish capital of America”, and it’s incredibly cute, but also very touristy. We found a great little coffee shop, because priorities, and otherwise walked up and down the main street alongside hoards of Chinese tourists. We were only there for a few hours, but I’d love to go back and explore the less touristic corners.
YY has the same picture at the same age!
Up next: Our stay in LA (and short visit to Palm Desert).
The fascinating female anatomy
I saw the image above of a woman’s milk ducts multiple times on my Facebook feed last week - the first time while nursing my daughter, nonetheless. “How”, I immediately wondered, “can this be right under my skin, feeding my baby, right at this moment? How was I never taught this in school? How did I never read about this or see a similar image in the many - many - pregnancy books I’ve read in the past couple of years?”
It is a mesmerizing image. Many of the articles which shared it had comments from people who didn’t believe it was true. Some people, women even, were disgusted by it. Others commented on how the milk ducts look like flesh flowers. I, personally, was just in awe.
During both of my postpartum periods (still ongoing), my biggest struggle has been to come to terms with my new body. This is a body that doesn’t fit in most of my old clothes. It’s a body that took 10 months to feel like my own after S’s birth, and who knows how long it’ll take for this feeling to come back this time around. It’s also a body that nurtured two lives from scratch. It’s a body that continues to nourish, via milk ducts very similar to the ones picture above, a baby whose fat little rolls make me so proud.
Accepting vs. honoring my own body is a real, non-negligible struggle. It takes conscious effort to acknowledge and sympathize with how much it has gone through in the past two years. Both of my pregnancies were “easy” by comparison, which in turn makes it harder to come to terms with the monumental toll they took on my body. Producing rich, nourishing milk is another feat short of a miracle. Did you know that a woman’s body will take all nutrients the baby needs from her own stores to produce milk, regardless of whether she has enough for herself? Breastfeeding is in fact nutritiously more taxing on a woman’s body than pregnancy itself. No wonder there have been days (weeks, months) in which I felt depleted and occasionally defeated. If only I wasn’t so distressed by the image I currently see in the mirror, I should probably pat myself on the back.
Don’t get me wrong. I am proud of my babies. I am all for empowering women. It would be hypocritical of me to be hard on my own body while telling other women to love theirs, just because my old clothes once again don’t fit quite right. But I would also be lying - to myself, most importantly - if I didn’t admit that I’ve been conditioned to believe that I should “bounce back” after birth. That I am not disappointed every time I step on the scale and erroneously believe for a split second that I should’ve “shed the baby weight” by now. I remember wondering if I’d ever feel good in my own skin again months after giving birth to S. I now know that I will, but that doesn’t make this ambivalent transitional postpartum period any easier.
I was recently asked what I wished for all postpartum women. I said I wished they would be kinder to their own bodies, starting in their own minds, regardless of societal pressures. I said I wished that for myself. It is certainly what I wish for my daughter. Though I’m not quite there yet, I do wish those flesh flowers work as a reminder to us all that the female body is simply fascinating, regardless of its past, present or future shape or size.
My VBAC birthing experience
I’m not really sure where to begin in retelling my daughter’s birth. All I know is that there was a series of events and choices which led to an unfortunate experience - most of which could’ve surely been avoided with a bit more knowledge and/or assertion on my end. I own up to not having known enough beforehand, and having instead chosen to believe that the healthcare professionals involved in L’s birth (mostly women) had our best interest at heart. Which, to be honest, they probably did. It just wasn’t the best for me. And I believe that this is what the vast majority of women opt to do - trust - so I urge them through this humble platform to do their research, and stand their ground when it comes to this defining moment in their and their babies lives.
L was born on February 1st 2019, at 23:41h, in Starnberg, Germany. Weighing 2.780kg and with 51 cm, she was already the most perfect bundle of joy and we were immediately smitten. We decided to have her in Germany mainly because they’d allow me to try and have a VBAC, i.e. a vaginal birth after cesarean. Since there’s been less than 2 years since my son was born, there was a small chance of a uterine rupture - a chance they wouldn’t take in Brazil or France. In those countries, I would’ve had to have undergone another c-section, which I didn’t want. We don’t plan on having more children, so I truly wanted to experience vaginal birth. My heart was set on a VBAC as long as my daughter and I were healthy; so a VBAC is what I got.
Yet, here’s what I wish I’d known in advance.
Cervical exams are optional
A cervical exam during pregnancy is when the doctor inserts two fingers into the vagina to check manually whether the cervix is dilated, by how many centimeters, etc.
The day before L was born, exactly a week before her due date, I was feeling a lot of pressure on my c-section scar and, after calling my doctor, decided to go to the hospital and have it checked (with the risk of uterine rupture, I wasn’t taking any chances). At the hospital, the doctor performed the standard cervical exam, rather aggressively, but although it was uncomfortable I didn’t see any harm in it - until it was too late. As she removed her fingers, a small gush of water came out.
That night, my urine was a bit tainted with blood. The following morning I woke up to my PJs soaked. My water had broken. I am now rather certain that this cervical exam the night before somehow contributed to PROM (premature rupture of membrane, i.e. when the water breaks before labor starts). I wasn’t dilated at all, L hadn’t “dropped”, I didn’t have any contractions. Yet the time had come, and at 7am we headed to the hospital.
Choosing a hospital close to where you live has also to do with postpartum
The hospital we chose was 30-40 minutes away from our place, in a city southwest of Munich called Starnberg. It came with excellent recommendations (unanimously good experiences by all women I asked) and, since it wasn’t in Munich, we had a higher probability of getting a private family room for my recovery. On the day of her birth we had more than enough time to get there. In fact, I would go on to spend the day walking all around and climbing up and down the hospital stairs, hoping it would trigger labor naturally.
However, what no one told us was that the hospital’s proximity is just as important, or even more so, during the baby’s and mother’s postpartum recovery as it is during labor. I’ll write more about this on my post about the first weeks of the puerperal period.
GBS testing is not standard in Germany
In Brazil as in other countries such as the US, where most of my pregnancy reading material comes from, GBS (Group-B Streptococcus bacteria) testing is pretty much standard. This is an important test, as GBS bacterial infection can pass onto babies born vaginally and, in very rare occasions, cause meningitis, pneumonia or sepsis. If a woman tests positive for it, or if she isn’t tested, she will be routinely administered antibiotics during birth - which I really didn’t want, as it could affect my daughter’s gut health for months to come. I was thus shocked, and frankly pissed off, when my doctor told me the day before L’s birth that I hadn’t been tested because “I didn’t ask for it, and the health insurance wouldn’t cover it”. At no point throughout the pregnancy had he asked me whether I was interested in taking it, and I assumed it had been routinely done. Again, my mistake in trusting and assuming. Alas, I’d be given antibiotics.
If you live in Germany and would like to be tested for GBS, which I recommend, make sure to discuss with your doctor in advance. You may need to be tested a few times throughout the pregnancy, as the result can change, affected for instance by your diet (probiotics can help a lot). The results take generally about 48 hours to come out.
If you aren’t vocal and assertive about your wishes, executive decisions can be made on your behalf without consulting you first
I arrived at the hospital around 8am, and by 1pm I was still walking around trying to trigger labor naturally. It didn’t happen. The midwife decided to give me medicine - oxytocin - to speed up the process, since my water having broken put L and me at a higher risk of infections. I had the right to refuse it, but I didn’t, which I take full responsibility for. To be entirely, 100% honest, I didn’t “feel like giving birth” at that moment. I didn’t feel empowered. I didn’t feel energized. I knew my daughter had to come out soonish by whatever means, and the only thing I was sure of then was that I wanted her to be healthy. I was fearful of a uterine rupture, and I was also fearful of stories I’d read about incontinence and ruined sex lives post vaginal birth. Yet, I didn’t want to have to recover from a c-section again (although my experience had been overall positive). All sorts of thoughts were going through my head and I didn’t know what to make of them, so I went on a trusting auto-pilot.
As I said before, I do take full responsibility for accepting other people’s suggestions rather than trusting my gut instinct. By 3pm I started feeling violent contractions triggered by the oxytocin, but they were then still far enough apart that I could rest a bit between them.
By 5pm though, I was already exhausted and miserable from the intensity and frequency of the contractions, and I was told I’d be given an epidural (which had always been part of my birth plan). For the following 3 hours I kept being told that the anesthesiologist “was coming”. When he finally showed up around 8pm, the hospital had somehow lost my paperwork - so he left while my mom, together with YY, filled it out all over again. I was truly miserable.
When the anesthesiologist finally came back, he told my mom and YY to leave the room. He didn’t speak a word of English and kept barking at me in German to not move - an instruction I tried to follow as best as I could despite the 1-minute-apart contractions. When the anesthesia caused a spasm on my right side, which obviously made me move, I was barked at again even louder, and this time by the midwife as well. I was so nervous and in so much pain that I started throwing up. Profusely. I have since learned that this “awful anesthesiologist” experience is somewhat common here. Once this whole ordeal was done and the pain had finally subsided, I was left in the room with YY and finally got to rest a little bit.
Asking you “not to scream” can be considered a form of psychological obstetric violence
Around 11pm, the doctor came to examine my cervix once again. At this point, thanks to the epidural, I finally was around 7cm dilated. I was overjoyed with the progress, and could at last envision the VBAC I’d hoped for. About 20 minutes later, however, I started feeling an overwhelming urge to push. I could feel L’s head putting a lot of pressure on my cervix, and quickly came to realize that I couldn’t “hold her in” any longer. I called for the doctor and the midwife, and as soon as they came in they told me to push. Continuously. It went against what I’d been told (to push slowly in order to avoid tear), but I was not about to contradict them. As I started pushing, screaming came naturally - at which point they told me not to. I was supposed to push, quietly.
I later learned that requesting women to be concerned about keeping things orderly during birth, when they’re at such a primal state, can be considered a form of psychological obstetric violence.
The “Kristeller maneuver” is not recommended worldwide, and is considered a form of obstetric violence
This is probably the part which shocked me the most during L’s birth, and one in which I felt like I had no control at all. The doctor performed the Kristeller maneuver (or “applied fundal pressure to facilitate childbirth”) in order to speed up the birth, since poor L was exhausted from labor and her heartbeat rate was dropping. I.e., she pushed L down the birth canal by aggressively pressuring my ribs with her arms and elbows. This maneuver is not recommended by the WHO, and hasn’t been routinely done worldwide for a while, including in Germany. The risks of this maneuver far outweigh the benefits. She could’ve broken my ribs. Worse yet, she could’ve broken L’s clavicle, or even caused brain hemorrhage - amongst many other tragic consequences which I don’t even want to consider.
With the additional aid of vacuum, L was out in about 5 minutes.
If you plan on giving birth in Germany, I urge you to include your preference for not having a Kristeller maneuver performed in your birth plan.
Suturing after a vaginal birth, no matter the degree of tear, takes longer than suturing after a c-section
Because the birth itself went by so quickly, and since I wasn’t dilated enough at that point, L came out ripping everything in her way. At first the midwife kindly reassured me that I had had “barely any tear”, but the doctor was quick to correct her. I had a third-degree tear, and suturing took longer than an hour. I thankfully had a healthy and hungry L on my chest for most of the time, but I couldn’t help but feel extremely fearful as the doctor called in other doctors to assist in stitching me up. Overhearing her say in German - twice, nonetheless - that it was a “catastrophe”, mustn’t have helped. She surely thought I was too “out of it” to hear, or assumed that I couldn’t understand German. Alas, I did hear her. And so did YY.
What I learned (much later, from another doctor, at another hospital) though is that suturing post-vaginal birth takes longer than a c-section, no matter the degree of tear. With my previous cesarean experience, S was out and I was stitched up in no more than 20 minutes. This time it took at least an hour and a half. Suturing a vaginal birth involves many unpredictable layers of skin and muscles, and doctors need to be particularly careful and attentive. Happily, I was reassured that they had done an “excellent job”, and I am ultimately thankful that they took the time they did.
By 3am, I was up in the recovery room.
To be fair, my experience wasn’t entirely negative, and I would like to end this report on a more positive note.
I had an angel of a nurse with me throughout most of the painful part of labor, who kept holding my hand and telling me that I was doing great (she also said YY was an excellent midwife as he encouraged me to do some of the breathing exercises we had learned in a great birthing class). Without her, I’m not sure I could’ve put up with the whole experience without begging for a c-section.
I’ll also never forget the moment in which I realized my daughter was being born vaginally, when we were past any possibility of a c-section, which was when the midwife exclaimed that she could see her head (and that there was so much hair!). That was exactly what I needed to hear in order to make the final push. Moments later they passed me my daughter. YY and I looked at each other, and he said “you did it”. L and I had indeed done it.
As we waited to be taken to the recovery ward, the midwife offered me tea and crackers. Time slowed down as I recovered a bit of my strength. L nursed immediately and instinctively, and I could at last enjoy the first rush of hormonal postpartum bliss.
The postpartum daze
There’s been so much I’ve wanted to write about since giving birth to our lovely L almost two months ago. But it has taken me this long to be able to sit down, and try to digest and process what I went through - what L and I went through. Only now, 8 weeks later, I am feeling a little more confident and able to organize my thoughts a little better. But even now, I keep reading these lines over and over again in order to convince myself that I’m somewhat eloquent. So please bear with me - the daze is real.
I have done a lot of research since her birth, both as part of my certification as a Pregnancy and Postpartum Nutrition Consultant, as well as in an attempt to better understand the unfortunate series of events that led to a less than ideal birthing experience for both my daughter and me. There are so many things I wish I knew beforehand, and another handful of things that I was pretty confident about knowing. So I decided to create separate, more “digestible” posts about what I wish I’d known, dedicated to my VBAC birthing experience in Germany (it wouldn’t have been possible elsewhere), and to my recovery.
All in all, I am obviously very grateful that L and I are now healthy. I am grateful that we’re home and that we’ve had so much support from our families from day one. I am grateful to my body, for nurturing and birthing her, and for continuing to nourish her. But to my gynecologist, who said my birthing experience was absolutely normal, I say no. It wasn’t. If it was, well, there is something very wrong about what has become normal - and we most definitely need to talk about it. I hope that in sharing my experience in upcoming posts I can prevent a future mother from going through a similar situation, regardless of where she lives.
Happy Mother's Day
Happy Mother's Day!
To past, present and future mamas. To people who miss their mamas. To people who have a strained relationship with their mamas. To the fortunate ones who get to spend the day with their mamas. To the women who decided not to become mamas. To the men who are both papas and mamas. To everyone, really, a happy mother's day.
This time a year ago I was 7 months pregnant and I felt very much like a mother. In fact, from the moment the pregnancy test came up positive I'd felt like a mother. I worried so much, all the time, about everything. For the subsequent 36 weeks, I worried. I counted kicks for a while, tested for toxoplasmosis multiple times, meditated, attended prenatal yoga, talked and sang to S. Yet I didn't want to call it my "first Mother's day", even though I already loved and cared for my son with every fiber of my being. I was too afraid of jinxing it. When you're pregnant, people tend to ~kindly~ remind you of everything that could go wrong at every turn, and I didn't want to feed into their or my anxiety.
A couple of months later, S was born - a full-term, healthy baby boy. I couldn't be happier, and more grateful. And yet.
My mom loves recalling how, on the day I was born, I instantly stopped crying the moment they placed me on her chest. As S cried loudly after being pulled out (he was born via c-section), I waited anxiously to have him on me. I was certain he'd stop crying then, which he did. For a few seconds. Before promptly proceeding to cry as loudly as ever.
I started questioning my motherhood there and then; it had been so much easier when he was still inside of me. I had known him so intimately. With every kick, every hiccup, every song I'd sung to him we'd been brought closer together, mother and son forming an eternal bond from the womb. It just wasn't the same now that he was out. I didn't know this screaming baby, and I didn't know myself as a mother, or frankly as a person anymore, either. The unconditional love was still there, but now tainted with exhaustion, frustration, unending anxiety and so much stress. I'll tell it to anyone who'll listen, as I wish someone would've warned me: the first month postpartum was the hardest of my life. That said, it set up the path for the most rewarding of times, too.
No switch turned on at the moment he was born. It didn't feel to me like "you're a mother now", and nothing fell into place. Instead, things fell apart. I felt much less of a mother than I had while pregnant, and admittedly much less in control of my son and of my own emotions. It was up to me to pick up the pieces of my expectations and ideas I had of myself, and rebuild it all from scratch. I had so much to learn. I still have so much to learn.
The role of mother took time and practice to grow into. It also took a hefty dose of support. I wouldn't be the okay and somewhat confident mother I've become by today, 10 months later, without the unyielding support from my husband, my mom, my godmother, my dad, my family-in-law, my friends. It sure takes a village (and thank god for Skype and Whatsapp for bringing that village closer to me).
Mother's Day is a day of love, of memory, of loss, of happiness. It's a day to call your mom; it's also a day to pat yourself on the shoulder if you've become one (from birth or from practice). It isn't easy, as no one said it would be, but damn it's a wonderful thing.
So Happy Mother's Day whoever you are, wherever you are. Go call your mom, go get yourself a treat if you're a mom, go reflect on who you are because of your mother or simply be grateful for having known a mother's love. Through hardship and gratitude, mothers stand tall at the root of everything that's ever been and will ever be. After all, none of us would be here otherwise.
Alas, the day has come
I wrote the text below about a month ago. I wrote it from raw feelings of relief and heartbreak. I didn't know how else to feel about my son's decision to wean himself - or at least what I thought had been his decision. I refused to do any research before writing the post so as to not shush my emotions; and felt silly immediately after looking it up. "There's just no such thing as baby-led weaning before he's at least 2 years old", read one article; "If your baby isn't interested in breastfeeding any longer then you're not trying hard enough", suggested another in somewhat kinder words. Overwhelmed with guilt, I decided to postpone publishing this text.
In the following month of failed attempts at nursing, I've gained some perspective on the matter and decided to go ahead and publish it. After all, I have a feeling that other women out there may have also gone down the guilt-led path of feeling subpar as a mother before accepting, like me, that frankly we're just doing our best. And there's no shame in that.
...
A few nights ago, I tried to nurse my son as I have every night since he was born - but he wasn't having any of it. He kept pushing himself away from my breasts, and the more I tried to nurse him, the more upset he got. I assumed he was just in a ~particular~ mood and let him calm down before trying again. Several failed attempts later, he happily drank a whole bottle of formula and promptly fell asleep.
We have repeated this process every morning and evening since, with the same result. I have come to the inevitable conclusion that my son has decided to wean himself, and I am frankly heartbroken.
This experience goes to show that you truly don't know how you'd react until you've been through something first-hand. Of course, I always knew that this day would come sooner or later. I assumed I'd be fine with it, that I'd be even in part relieved and eager to eat spicy foods or have a beer on a weekend afternoon, or to fit back into my pre-pregnancy bras. Above all, I assumed I'd have a say - any say - on the circumstances in which my son would stop nursing. I never assumed he'd make this decision all by himself.
From the beginning, in my head it was mandatory to nurse S until at least 6 months, as it is recommended time and again by every single source of motherhood knowledge. Once that milestone was reached and surpassed, I set a new goal for 8 months. In the meantime I silently pictured myself nursing him on his 1st birthday, feeling fulfilled at the realization that he still couldn't have enough of our unique bond. Little did I know that my son had his own plans, and decided to quit cold turkey at 7 and a half months.
My first reaction was to presume that I had approached breastfeeding incorrectly from the get-go. I blamed myself for not pumping enough (or perhaps having gotten the wrong pump?), for not drinking enough "nursing tea" (or maybe drinking too much of the wrong tea??). I blamed myself for introducing the pacifier too soon, and the bottle, and solids. In every scenario, his loss of interest for breastmilk was my fault. And yet I do still have milk - he's just not having any of it. As my godmother put it, he must have realized that he's now only interested in tasting his food directly from the source, instead of filtered.
Deep down I know it isn't me. But it is hard to accept that the unique connection he and I and no one else in the world had at every moment he was breastfed, is forever gone. I acknowledge the fact that, like everything in our lives, nursing S had to end at some point.
It just bothers me deeply that I didn't savor every second of the last time he was up for nursing - as in my rookie-ness I hadn't realized that it would possibly be the last time. To me, this has been a 101 lesson on cherishing the here and the now. On realizing and accepting that my baby boy is already his own person with his own preferences and wishes. And on celebrating every single fluid phase of motherhood, for it all goes by way too fast.
The daily grind
A few weeks back I posted an Instagram story with a glimpse of a PDF I'd put together to help my husband visualize the daily routine with the baby. I did a little poll asking whether it would be helpful if I shared it, and the results were unanimous - so here we are! Needless to say, this is an entirely practical post, as opposed to the sentimentalities I normally publish. Also, do keep in mind that what works for my family may not work for yours (and vice-versa). That said, let's dig in.
The daily grind
The original PDF listed our routine before our son turned six months, but the daily tasks have changed quite a bit since. I used to look forward to not having to sterilize everything every day, but the challenges (and messiness) of introducing solids and water to S kinda made me miss the good ol' sterilized bottles days.
Anyways, here's what our days look mostly like (tasks added after he turned 6 months are highlighted in green):
Observations:
Nursing
I still nurse S at least twice daily - first thing in the morning and after bath time, sometimes also during the day. He was almost exclusively breastfed up to 4 months, but then his pediatrician asked us to supplement with formula, and my milk supply hasn't been the same since. Pumping didn't really work for us, so that's that!
Baby food brand
One of the biggest perks of living in Munich is finding HIPP everywhere. It's hands down our go-to baby food brand - from the formula (Combiotik) to both savory and "sweet" baby foods, baby water, and cereal. It's affordable, organic and the quality is superb. S loves it, and so do we.
That said - we mostly cook him veggies at home, but HIPP is the most wonderful alternative when we simply don't have the time.
Sterilizing
The "sterilizing" bit of the daily tasks isn't completely accurate any longer. I now usually just wash the bottle as soon as possible (and very thoroughly too, because as much as I approve the HIPP formula, the Combiotik 2 is super sticky and there's always residue, so I have to triple check each time). Bottles are now sterilized 2x/week; pacifiers are still sterilized daily though.
Play time
When we're home, S spends most of the time on a play mat on the floor with his baby gym and other toys, hence the importance of keeping the floor clean even though he isn't crawling yet. We got one of those rubber, non-toxic play mats, which really helps him get a good grip while on tummy. We love it, but unfortunately so does our cat... So I'm not sure how long it will last.
What the hell is a butt cloth?
We always attach the pacifier to a tiny cloth to keep it clean and covered from dust, etc. When at home, we always clean our baby’s butt with cotton and water, and keep the overnight used pacifier cloth to dry the excess, hence calling it "butt cloth" (vice-versa with the cloth that's used with the pacifier during the day). They're obviously washed and ironed before we use them with the pacifier again. ;)
Bath time routine
This one isn't detailed on the PDF because it's a whole category of its own. It includes (but isn't limited to): showering or bathing baby, drying him thoroughly, applying moisturizer on face and body while massaging him, dressing him, combing his hair, cleaning ears and nose, giving his vitamine D, then nursing AND bottle-feeding him... As my husband puts it "why did we ever grow up?".
Ironing
Yup, we iron all of his clothes, always. Maybe it's a Brazilian thing? We thought we could/would stop once he turned six months, but we've gotten too used to it by now. I'm sure this will be different once baby number 2 comes along.
Long story short - I hope this helps. Do let me know in the comments if you've found this helpful, and/or if you have any questions. Hopefully this won't discourage anyone from having babies!
The half-year mark
It's dumbfounding just how much a little being can teach you in half a year. I can't help but acknowledge that had it been any ordinary 6 months (and not my son's first half year on Earth), I wouldn't have necessarily valued them. I would've gone ahead with work, grateful for some projects and making do with others. All of a sudden it would've been fall, then winter. I would plan a nice trip with my husband. I would've enjoyed the straightforwardness of it all, and I would've perhaps appreciated the freedom to do whatever I wanted. Yet, I know there's nothing I could've done in that time that would have been nearly as gratifying and mesmerizing as watching my kid develop, and noticing myself develop with him.
It hasn't been without its (many) challenges. As a parent in 2018 one can't help but compare oneself - and one's baby - to others on Instagram. Or, you know, any social channel. It's an extremely slippery slope. I'll watch videos of adorable babies holding their little feet up at 4 months. S started doing that last week. I'll see extremely precocious babies holding their weight on their little legs at 3 months or, more commonly, rolling over at 5. S isn't really interested yet, and my concerns do not afflict him. He's on no one's schedule but his own.
In his first six months of life, my son has taught me to appreciate every little squeal, every laughter, naps and even poopy diapers. Try as I might to assist him into reaching another "milestone", he'll stare back at me as if to say: Relax. Take it in. You'll miss this. He has taught me that now that he's around everything is different, and he's the one making the rules of my new life. Being in control has become just as important as learning to let go.
It all goes by too fast, as everyone truthfully says. For the past half-year I've looked forward to this moment - when I wouldn't need to sterilize bottles all the time, when he'd be able to eat solids, when I'd start getting him all the cool, bright, loud interactive toys and squeeze some extra giggles out of him. When I could try and tone down being a germaphobe, and when he'd start reaching significant milestones. Now that it's here, I wish it would slow down. Part of me looks eagerly forward to that first step; the other part truly appreciates that my son has decided to take his time, at least for now.
Two days ago S started teething, and as he cried on and off into the night it stirred up all kinds of feelings. Frustration, yes, but also the realization that this is parenthood. One day he can barely open his eyes, and a moment later his first little teeth are starting to show. No one's life, not even his, will stop for me to get my bearings and adjust to the passing of time. The flip side is that trying to soothe a crying child at 3am by any means possible is as real and as in-the-present as it gets. This, while realizing that the one thing that makes him feel better is something as simple as your smell. Realizing half-asleep that at 6 months, as from day 1, you're your little one's everything, and that he'll forever be yours, too.
Thank you, so much, to every precious moment within this half-year mark for teaching me this much.
The most wonderful time of the year
My husband and I couldn't have come from more different backgrounds. He's French/American, I'm Brazilian; he's a passionate omnivore, I'm a vegetarian; he's as much of an extrovert as I am an introvert; and at last the one that gets to us the most - religion.
When YY and I started dating, I had very few expectations. Knowing he was a nice Jewish guy from a pretty traditional family, and most importantly knowing that I was not, it's needless to say that I thought it might be smart to keep things casual for my own heart's sake. I've grown up pretty much agnostic, even though my family's Catholic. My own parents chose to not baptize me so that one day I could opt for a religion myself, should I want one.
8 years, a marriage and a baby later, I am grateful to have failed at "keeping it casual".
Yet, with all the love and respect and mutual admiration that we have for each other, raising a little human in our context is particularly mind-boggling. It's at "the most wonderful time of the year" that fundamental questions, so obvious to most couples, hit us the hardest. With the end of Hanukkah and with Christmas right around the corner, the first holiday season with our little guy necessarily brings up doubts about how we want to raise him, and how we would like to set up the cornerstone of his cherished childhood memories and lifelong traditions.
For starters, we live in Germany, a country which official language neither of us master. Although we appreciate the culture, it isn't ours to keep or pass on. So when it comes to traditions, whose should we follow? Should S, our son, believe that the Christ Kindl brings him gifts on the 25th of December, as would Bavarian kids? Will he feel left out if we don't put together an advent calendar? Or should he believe in Santa Claus, like his mom once did? Should he, like her, stay up late on the 24th to open the gifts that somehow Santa had just brought, and yet had also paradoxically been sitting under the tree for the past month?
Or should we tell him from the get-go that Santa isn't real? Should we focus solely on Hanukkah? In which case, should we make it slightly more appealing by having YY dress up as an armadillo like Ross did on Friends? Otherwise, when it comes to gifts, should he get 9 of them? With so many questions, one thing is for certain - YY and I are determined to do things our way, as unique as it may sound and whatever that may be.
While I am ready to set aside my mostly Catholic upbringing, I am not ready to give up on Christmas. I didn't have many traditions growing up, so Christmas Eve was truly the highlight of many of my years. It was the one day when my family got together, traveling from all over the state of Rio, gathering at my home. I would wake up to the smell of traditional Christmas food, hoping with all my might that "this year, finally, I would get a puppy!" (my number one wish on Santa's list for 28 years and counting). My mom would blast Christmas carols all day long, always starting with an old Disney CD we owned. I remember the day I realized Santa wasn't real, from seeing my cousin's black hair under the wig - I was equally disappointed with the truth and proud of myself for being smart. Long story short, the memories are too many and too great to give up on, and I would like to provide the opportunity for my son to build a similar repertoire of childhood souvenirs. YY, of course, has just as many memories from his own Hanukkah celebrations, and I don't see why either of us should want to omit or prevent our son from enjoying our traditions - all of them.
To be honest, we're winging it. But the other day I was finally certain that we're on the right track, when YY picked up S and said: "Do you realize how lucky you are little one? You get latkas AND panettone!". That sounds about right. That's just how lucky we are, this or any other time of the year, loving and supporting each other because of our differences, not in spite of them. With that in mind and in the spirit of the season, I wish you and yours the happiest of holidays.
Photo credit: Carolina Goetz
Limitations
I'm a fraud. "Why on Earth did I think I know enough to start a blog about motherhood?". I'm a fraud, I'm a phony, I'm so embarrassed - that's all I could think, on loop, as I sobbed around 2am the other night. It'd been one hour since my son had woken up to eat, two hours since I'd gone to bed. There he was, balling, and I had no idea what he wanted.
At first I thought we had it covered. "Can you please try to burp him? Did you check his diaper?", I whispered in the dark to my husband, face half-buried in my pillow (we take turns). The crying continued. "He can't be hungry, he just ate! Keep trying to burp him". Every minute of a newborn crying in the night feels like hours. I quickly, too quickly, started losing it.
Then I reluctantly asked for my godmother's help. We've been lucky enough to have her around since S was born - but to ask for her help at 2am meant admitting that we don't have it covered. She happens to be a trained nurse who's worked in childcare for the past 40 years, so her presence has been just a bit reassuring. But those days are almost over, as she'll soon head back to Brazil. "When did he eat last?", she asked. "He can't be hungry, he just ate", I answered, defensively.
In the meantime YY was still trying to burp him. He burped! - but the crying continued. He passed S to my godmother. She took him away and patiently calmed him down. Then I lost it.
I started sobbing, telling myself I don't have this, we don't have this, I need sleep, I can't, I won't - but I will. My godmother asked me to prepare a bottle, as she knew I couldn't breastfeed at that moment. "But... He just ate", I muttered as I mixed the formula. That was it. He was hungry, and I was in denial. I preach that "fed is best", but at that moment I had trouble feeding my son formula. I couldn't accept that my milk wasn't enough. I felt like I wasn't enough.
As it turns out, S is slightly underweight for his age, and we'll have to feed him formula multiple times a day from now on. I look back at that night and try to make sense of my desperation. From a distance, I understand that I'm not a fraud, or a phony, and there's nothing to be embarrassed about. I am doing the best that I can on the daily - mind and body - but sometimes that doesn't cut it, and that's okay. The problem is accepting it.
The pressure of parenthood is unlike anything I'd experienced before. I salute parents everywhere, and think about them sometimes as I feed my baby at 2am. I wonder how many of them are out there at that very moment, exhausted, feeling inadequate, feeling like they're not enough. Feeling like a fraud. Feeling like I so often do.
Is that, I wonder, a sign that we must be doing something right?
FIRST-AID
I'm naturally prone to anxiety. During my pregnancy, I would have a serious crisis at least once a month. The worst episode culminated with me crying at work due to a misunderstanding with a colleague, to the point that I had to go home. I thought I was just being "hormonal". I thought it would get better after I gave birth. It didn't.
If you send me an article about SIDS, I won't sleep. Then there is a heartfelt report from a mother pleading parents to learn first-aid that has been circulating (read: haunting me) on social media lately, which is why I jumped at the opportunity to attend a children and infant first-aid course, dragging my husband along with me.
ASB (Arbeiter-Samariter-Bund) offers one voucher per year to members who wish to attend first-aid courses for adults, elderly, children, etc. Without the voucher, the course costs 40EUR (but you can become an ASB member by donating as little as 24EUR/year). I became a member by chance as ASB volunteers knocked on my door, but I was sold when they told me about the possibility of taking the course.
Granted, it was all in German. YY was frustrated at first, as he felt like we weren't getting all that we could from it due to the language barrier. But regardless, it was definitely worth our time and the paranoia that followed.
A few takeaways, or just interesting facts:
- There are two species of poisonous spiders in Germany (!!)
- The worst disease-transmitting animals for children are: 1. Rats, 2. Cats, 3. Humans (kids bite!)
- 50% of fatal accidents with babies involve drowning
- There's LOTS of wasps hidding in bakery-bought donuts
- The vast majority of accidents happen at home; the second majority happen during free-time
- First-aid must happen within 2-3 minutes at the event of serious injury involving the brain, the heart or the lungs.
- The German average time for help to arrive is 15 minutes; in Munich, it's 8 minutes (hence the importance of knowing first-aid)
- Knowing the right emergency number to call is KEY. The right number = the right questions being asked, and that saves time, which can save a life
- People who work in childcare don't have the right to clean a wound with water, as that's considered "wound-cleaning" and this being Germany only doctors/paramedics have the right to perform it. Parents are allowed to forgo this rule.
- Finally, we did some practical CPR exercises on a baby doll and child doll, which gave me the creeps
The course lasted for a good chunk of the day (9am-2:30pm), so we obviously learned much more than that. We were taught what to do at the event of choking, eating insects, hypothermia, heat insolation, unconsciousness with/without breathing etc., and we got the booklet with brilliant 90s stock footage, which lightened my heart at the end of such a tension-packed workshop (for me, at least).
Did I get to sleep better after attending the course? Nope. But would I recommend it to anyone caring for a tiny person? Absolutely.
