When I was pregnant, I fretted over every little thing. It didn't help that my pregnancy was complicated by high blood pressure and a less than ideal work place. I was told monitor the baby's movements three times a day, and if he wasn't as active as last time, I had to come to the doctor to be tested right away.
You can imagine, being given this sort of imperative, that I became extremely paranoid, and monitored every single movement of both the baby and myself. I would cry to Taylor that I didn't feel the baby move right at 11:00 am on the dot and that it must have been the result of me taking Sudafed the night before, or maybe it was the fish I ate for lunch, or perhaps being exposed to gamma rays from my computer. Whatever the cause, the end result was my baby had been damaged and it was my fault; I ruined him forever.
I was so relieved and grateful to have a normal, healthy baby boy. This relief lasted no longer than 24 hours when the following morning I completely failed at my attempts to breastfeed, and had to give my screaming infant a bottle of formula in order to calm him down. This was it: he'll never take to the breast again, I'd have to buy him formula and he'll be less smart and healthy than his peers; I ruined him forever.
After Caleb's tummy got full and I got a lesson from the lactation consultant, breastfeeding went smoothly and he gained four pounds between leaving the hospital and his first visit to the pediatrician. "Well," she had said, "No failure to thrive here."
Such words should have given me comfort, helped me relax, but once again we're going through another set of trials and I'm convinced I'm must be doing something wrong. Naturally, if I don't fix this right away, I'm going to ruin him forever.
Caleb, or The Baby Prince, as I affecionately refer to him when he's being demanding, is going through another growth spurt and is eating so much I can hardly keep up with him. It doesn't help that he inherited his mother's flair for the dramatic - you'd think he was starving to death from the way he carries on when he's hungry.
In order to help him stay fuller longer at night, we decided to try some rice cereal. I thought this was an excellanet solution, until I pulled down my copy of What to Expect during the First Year (which really should be called: Everything You're Doing Wrong during the First Year and how You're Ruining Your Child Forever) and read that giving cereal was the wrong thing to do, because then I'll stop producing enough milk to meet his demand, thus requiring more suplemental feedings, which will further reduce my milk supply, and so the cycle goes.
Engulfed in another cloud of worry and guilt, I talked to my mother who told me she gave my older brother Pete rice cereal in his bottle to help him sleep through the night as well. In spite of this, Pete turned out to be an intelligent, witty, and successful adult, certainly not ruined in anyway (except perhaps a tendency to dress up as Captain Kirk). I realized that we mothers do the best we can, and for the most part, our kids turn out just fine. And when I look at Caleb's sweet, gummy smile, I know that one day he's going to be grown and successful and wracked with guilt over all the grief he caused me. Thus the circle will be complete.
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| From 12_10_09 |
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