Feeding Your Adopted Infant

As a two time mom myself, I am grateful to have breastfed two babies.  For me, the experience was uncomplicated, fulfilling, empowering, lovely.  I wrote about it here in one of my favorite parenting posts ever.  Long story short, it’s hard to argue that breast is best.  Scientifically, it just is.  GO BREASTS!  GO LACTATION!  WOO to the HOO-TERS!

That said, breastfeeding is not always easy nor possible for all women.  I assumed that with our third child, a child we knew would be coming to us through adoption, that bottles and formula would be the only options.  And I was A-OK with that.

Breastfeeding never defined my being a mother, and it was never a huge part of my mom identity.  It was just something sweet and intimate and amazing I got to do with my kiddos and I felt lucky for it, all 28 months of it.

Then a few days ago, I read this piece from Huffington Post about an adoptive mom breastfeeding.  What the what?  The headline alone kind of grabbed me.  I knew somewhere, in the back of my mom brain, that breastfeeding an adopted child was possible, but assumed it was the tube taped to your nipple and the plastic bag of formula thrown over your shoulder kind of breastfeeding.  More like “breastfeeding.”  Nope, not for me.

But the gal in the article (Catherine Pearson) described her own experience of breastfeeding her newly adopted infant.  It involved inducing lactation with prescribed synthetic hormones.  Now mind you, these prescribed hormones are not approved by the FDA for this purpose, so are not covered under insurance.  Inducing lactation also involves days to weeks of prepping with manual breast stimulation and pumping to simulate an infant’s sucking.  The author describes it best:

I pumped every three hours for the six weeks before our son was born, even at work. I got up in the middle of the night. For the first week, I made literally drops. But slowly, I was able to increase that to about 5 ounces each day.

She goes on to describe that she was never able to pump enough herself, so had to rely on supplements for her baby to get the proper nutrition necessary for proper growth and development.

Honestly, a third of the way into the article, I knew that inducing lactation was not a choice I would ever make.  There is something decidedly unnatural about taking synthetic hormones to induce lactation.  And, for me (not you, me), inducing lactation after adopting an infant seems as if I would be fighting nature.  There is more to motherhood than breastfeeding.  There, I said it.  Yep, I did.

But still, Catherine Pearson’s article grabbed me, and I was having a hard time letting it go.  I am a huge advocate for live and let live.  The fact that Ms. Pearson was willing to do things that I was not in order to breastfeed her adopted child should not impact my life in the least.  Maybe it was this sentence that did it:

Within the first hour, I was able to breastfeed him, and I stayed with him and breastfed him every time he woke just like any normal mom would.

Yep.  That’s the one.  What, on earth, I wondered, was a “normal mom”? Seriously.  And because I am hoping to be an adoptive mom, is that somehow less than normal?  It seemed as if Ms. Pearson was working awfully hard to help herself feel like a “normal mom,” and in doing so was casting judgment on other adoptive moms who opt out of round the clock pumping and taking synthetic hormones.

I posted a link to the article on my personal Facebook page (yes, along with my outrage) and one friend made the point that the author wasn’t disparaging other moms, just writing about her own personal experience, which is true, but as I always say, language is powerful.  POWERFUL.  POWERFUL, people!  By suggesting that she felt like a “normal mom” by breastfeeding, just like she had with her other children, anything other than breastfeeding would be less than normal.

Yeah, whatever.  I don’t need to breastfeed to feel like a normal mom for a few reasons:

  1. I know there is no such damn thing as a “normal mom”
  2. Motherhood is about more than genetics and biology
  3. I feel secure enough in myself and in my mothering that I don’t need to go to such extremes to prove my maternal worth or my mothering abilities
  4. Bonding is about more than breasts

The other thing that got me is more an issue specific to moms who parent children who come to them both biologically and through adoption.  I will be the first to admit that part of the reason we want to adopt an infant is so that we have baby stories for ALL our children — that we can share as much with our kids as is possible.  I would hate to talk to them in a few years and be able to share intimate details of Mary Tyler Son’s very early days and when it comes time for our youngest, not have that information or experience. Selfish?  Yes, absolutely.

But it leads to a larger issue I grapple with myself on many days.  I know our children will be different.  They just will be.  Our oldest is dead and buried. Different.  Our middle is biological and looks just like Dad.  Different.  Our youngest will have two moms and two brothers, only one set of which will live with him.  Different.  Not less than, not more than, just different.

Adoption is its own unique and amazing and lovely experience.  Isn’t that, even minus the biology and lactation, inherently worthy and special?  I hate the notion that if biology cannot be duplicated or simulated, it is somehow less than normal.  Why can’t adoption be celebrated for what it is — the coming together of adults who make the most sacred of pacts to honor and ensure the health and well being of a child.

And that, my friends, goes so far beyond a bottle or mammary glands or synthetic hormones that I haven’t figured out how to put it into words yet.  But, yes, my bottles are ready and my nursing bras are long since gone.  And I’m okay with all of it and so very, very grateful.

Hey!  Why don’t you subscribe to these here posts!  Here is how:

Type your email address in the box and click the “create subscription” button. My list is completely spam free, and you can opt out at any time.

Top 10 Worst Baby Names Ever

So you can’t scan the news these days without hearing about the court ordered name change of the baby named Messiah.  True story.  It just happened in Tennessee.  A couple could not agree on their new baby’s last name and opted to settle the matter in court.  Well, when the judge realized they had named their baby Messiah, she ordered that wee little one’s first name be changed to Martin.  Wow.  From Messiah to Martin.  How the mighty have fallen.

That got me to thinking, especially as Mary Tyler Dad and I are working on choosing a baby name ourselves (fingers crossed, Universe, you know, just in case you read my blog posts).  What are the worst baby names?  Funny you should ask, cause I have the list right here . . .

Top 10 Worst Baby Names Ever

10.  Messiah.  Yeah, that is a wee bit much to heap on a little one.  Messiah. Just think about that.  That would be a heavy, heavy cross to bear, pun absolutely intended.

9.  Tragedy.  It sounds cute, right?  Say it out loud.  Go ahead, I’ll wait. TRAJ-A-DEE.  It flows, has a bit of a lilt to it, sounds girlie, but not too girlie. Yeah, not so much.  Imagine the look on the poor little one’s face when she’s old enough to Google, cause no one under the age of 20 uses a dictionary anymore.  Poor thing.  Tragic, really.

8.  Allergy.  Again, this is a string of syllables that sort of roll easily off the tongue.  Allergy sounds like it could be a name, say if you grew up speaking a different language and had no clue what its actual meaning was.  The truth is, you know everyone who meets little Allergy would hate her.  “That Allergy is a bitch,” they would say.  Pass the Sudafed.

7.  Failure.  Wow.  Talk about foreshadowing.  This one is sort of along the same lines as Messiah — there is no way in freaking hell a person could ever fully live up to these names.

6.  Kardashian.  You know it’s only a matter of time before someone names their baby Kardashian, and I am pretty certain that somewhere out there is already a baby named Dash dressed in little Ed Hardy onesies.  (Oh, damn. I just Googled that and see Ed Hardy onesies really exist.  All apologies if you dress your baby in them.  Your baby is beautiful and brilliant and not at all a douche-baby.)

Ed Hardy onesie

5.  Mediocre.  So if naming your baby Messiah or Failure are too strong in the expectations department, perhaps you might opt for the safer Mediocre. This is a baby that will never rock the boat, never shine, never truly disappoint.  And all of that is okay.  Here, have a participation ribbon, Mediocre, now run along!

4.  Peanut Butter; and 3. Jelly.  Twins are not to be ignored in this list, nosiree!  The worst baby names for twins would surely be Peanut Butter and Jelly.  How sad it would be if one was always known as the sticky one and the other the sweet one.  Too unfair for words.  And come time for school, well there would always be a Peanut Butter free table and that is sure to mess with a kid’s head.  PB and Jay is kind of cute, though.  Ohmigod, I want twins just so I could name them PB and Jay.

2.  Hitler.  Don’t laugh, cause this totally happened.  Ugh, nothing like naming your precious little one — and all little ones are precious — after the most polarizing, maniacal, hate monger of the 20th century.  I’ve got nothing funny to say here.  Just shaking my head and working to imagine a world without hate.

1.  Thurgood Marshall.  Okay, I already know that Imma get publicly flogged for writing about Ed Hardy onesies and douche-babies, so why stop there?  Thurgood Marshall made this here list because ever since I have been with Mary Tyler Dad, he has talked about wanting to name our babies Thurgood Marshall.  I have nothing but love, love, love for Justice Marshall, the first African American on the Supreme Court.  Seriously, deep love and respect.  But I suspect that Mary Tyler Dad is more than joking when he offers this name as a possibility.  I think he truly wants a little Thurgood Marshall running around our home.  If I gave even one tiny iota of consideration, Mary Tyler Dad would pounce, and there I would be, all, “Thurgood Marshall, eat your Cheerios.”  “Thurgood Marshall, have you done your homework?”  “No, Thurgood Marshall, we may not have chicken nuggets for breakfast today.”  Who’s got time for all those extra syllables?

Supreme Court Justice Thurgood Marshall.
Supreme Court Justice Thurgood Marshall.

So there you have it — the Top 10 Worst Baby Names Ever.  And you can bet your sweet bippies that we won’t be sharing our baby’s name here. Nope, don’t wanna do it, cause surely one of you will think it is the WORST NAME EVER.  Pfffft.

Sometimes I make you cry, sometimes I make you think, and hopefully, sometimes I make you laugh.  If you don’t want to miss a single post, please subscribe!  Here is how:

Type your email address in the box and click the “create subscription” button. My list is completely spam free, and you can opt out at any time.

Advice from Dads

Today marks 80 years that my Dad has been on this here earth.  That is a good long time, especially considering I grew up hearing my Dad say, “Every day over 50 is gravy.”  This was a considered remark, as my Dad believed that by age 50, most folks had raised and educated their kids.  Everything on top of that is gravy, icing on the cake, whatever other food metaphor you want to use to convey the idea of a bonus.

My Dad, to this day, is one of my anchors.  I seek his advice, his opinions, his take on things that trouble me or need a sounding board.  Now that he is 80, I know that I won’t have access to his wisdom and insights for much longer.  But as my Dad would say, 30 years of gravy is a heck (he would never say hell in front of me, as he doesn’t believe men should swear in front of women or children, or that women should swear, well, ever) of a lot of gravy.

Happy birthday, Dad!  I love you like few others.  

In honor of my Dad’s 80 rotations around the sun, I encouraged the fine folks on my Facebook page to share words of wisdom from their own dads, and these little nuggets, kind readers, are what you submitted.  A couple of things jump out at me:  1) lots of dads swore way more than my own; and 2) a dad’s advice is often harsh, plain, and cuts right to the core. Nothing wrong with that.

Hey!  If you want more of this here blog, you gots to subscribe.  Your dad would want you to!  Here’s how:

Type your email address in the box and click the “create subscription” button. My list is completely spam free, and you can opt out at any time.