More Awkwardness

I'm not sure how to write about this now. I think I've been looking at things from the wrong direction. I've thought of play groups as something good for Thumper, something that helps him learn how to interact with other people, and maybe get some potty training motivation from seeing other kids pause the action while they go pee. I have also thought of it as something good for me, as ideas for destinations and activities when I run out, as pleasant conversation. I had several expectations for the dads' group when I first joined, with almost none of them actually approaching reality. I thought I would find ideas for ways to supplement Aerie's income; I did not. I thought I would find conversations and message board posts about approaches to solving difficulties I was having. But dads don't talk much. They sit in companionable silence. They talk about possible solutions to inexplicable noises coming from rear brake drums. And fishing. And sports. And they tell dirty jokes.

Don't get me wrong; there are a few great guys in the dads group whose company I enjoy and whose parenting I admire. I've had pleasant times and even great times over the past few years. But I haven't made fast friends, and I haven't found the regular, core group of kids that Thumper can play with again and again, learning how to navigate personality conflicts when everyone's not on their best behavior because they've just met. One obstacle is the large size of the group and the large size of the geographical area over which they're spread. The bigger obstacle is the apathy the dads have towards getting their kids together to play.

So I joined the couple of moms' groups thinking I'd have better luck finding friends for Thumper, but not really expecting to find friends for me. I have never minded being the only man on the playground. Moms have always been surprisingly friendly and accepting of me, especially with Thumper's outgoing nature. But I didn't anticipate, when I joined the moms' groups, the frequency of the in-home play date versus the playground/pool/sprinkler park play date. I tried twice to host in-home play dates for the dads' group. When Thumper was almost 6 months old, I hosted. I was apparently a little nervous. It went well, but it didn't turn into a relationship, either for me or for Thumper, and it would be another 2 years before I hosted another. Again, it attracted only one dad and one kid. The kids had fun; I had fun. But I haven't seen the dad, or the kid, since, at playgrounds or elsewhere.

Since joining the two moms' groups, though, we've been to 3 in-home play dates, a birthday party, and a baby shower, on top of many playground, pool, and sprinkler park dates. That's five times in a couple of months that we've gone to other people's homes, along with sometimes large and sometimes small groups of other kids and parents. Thumper loves these play date so much that he has not yet managed to leave one without having a screaming, hysterical fit. It is a cruel injustice that so much fun ever has to end.

For me, though, the in-home play dates add another layer of social awkwardness. Not just with the unselfconscious breastfeeding, but with all sorts of aspects that don't generally come up at the playground. I want to make sure my kid doesn't make a mess and shares and has good manners and covers when he coughs and doesn't club any babies or big-screen TVs with a baseball bat, lest my male parenting style be judged inferior. I want to make sure I participate in food prep or cleanup to the degree that's appropriate, not too much to be overbearing or annoying but not too little, either.

And conversation, especially at the baby shower, just takes turns that seem to leave me behind. When one mom asks the showeree how much weight she's gained, and the showeree says, "Oh sure, bring that up in front of everybody..." I feel like maybe I'm overhearing something I shouldn't, or that I'm the particular everybody it shouldn't have been brought up in front of. When birth stories were shared, with so many hours spent to reach so many centimeters dilation, I just never felt the natural opening in the conversation to talk about Thumper's birth, and transverse breach and c-section. It felt like I'd be intruding.

And then Bingo was played, and I was invited, and I played. I misheard the prize, though, thinking that the winner would watch the showeree's 3 1/2-year-old some day soon so that she could go out and watch the latest Twilight movie in peace by herself before the baby comes. I won at Bingo, tying with another of the moms, and it was explained that the prize was two other moms watching the showeree's and the winners' kids so that we could all go enjoy Edward and Jacob together. It suddenly seemed too much like a date to me, and I mumbled something about what I thought the prize was and wandered away. At the end of the shower, one of the moms who'd offered to do the kid watching reminded the other winner of Bingo that she was obligated to go see the movie whenever the showeree wanted, but she never looked my way, and I felt kind of stupid. And kind of relieved.

And when people began to leave, and the showeree was hugged, I filled one arm with my big bowl of fruit salad and the other with my big toddler so that I wouldn't wonder if I was supposed to hug too, or not. But still, it seemed like the hug could've happened, if I'd tried, but I didn't, and I wondered if she felt snubbed, or felt like I was oddly reserved, or if the hug, if I'd attempted it, would've been even more awkward, especially since I'd filled my arms with cargo.

And then, when I got home, I saw a Facebook Status Update that made it clear that one of the breastfeeding moms had found my blog, and I remembered that, though I'd originally intended to keep my blog anonymous and separate from my Facebook, I'd had second thoughts. I couldn't recall if I'd actually added irodius.com as my webpage in my Facebook info, or if I'd just thought about adding it. Turns out I had actually added it. And my imaginary online life collided with my real life.

It didn't sound like she was offended, though maybe her husband was. Hard to tell. But what struck me from what she said about the whole thing was: I am probably making up all of this awkwardness all by myself. If I feel like I'm standing on the outside, unincluded, it's probably because I'm standing on the outside, not participating. I have been very careful not to offend, not to overstep my bounds, whatever those bounds might be to whoever might be keeping score. And who knows how my own reserve is interpreted by these perfectly nice people who've invited me into their homes.

I wonder how old I'll be when I finally stop acting like that awkward teenage boy who was pretty sure that everyone else was working with a script he never got?

It Doesn't Really Feel Like Emasculation, But It Is Kind of Odd

I'm spending part of my evening tonight making a big bowl of fruit salad to take to the first of two baby showers that I'll be attending over the next three days. I haven't been to a baby shower ever in 38 years, but after joining two moms' play groups, BAM! Two in a row. For the first, the entire play group was invited, and I thought, "Oh, they don't really mean me. That would just be awkward." But then I was explicitly, specifically invited and encouraged to attend.

I even tossed the apple chunks in lemon juice to prevent browning.

I guess the second shower doesn't really count, because it's for BFF and his girlfriend, and it's being billed more as a celebration than a shower, with gifts not necessary, but still. It's a shower. My second in three days.

There are clear differences in how the moms' groups and the dads' groups operate. For instance, the moms show up in numbers, and the dads show up in ones or twos. The moms host play dates in their homes, and the dads stick to the playgrounds. The dads venture all over two counties, and the moms return to the neighborhood playgrounds again and again.

The biggest difference, though, and perhaps the most disconcerting? In a couple of years of dads' group play dates, breastfeeding has never come up. Not once has a bare breast suddenly appeared in the middle of a conversation. With the moms, it's happening with somewhat alarming frequency. I like to think of myself as a hip, modern man with no philosophical objections to breastfeeding in public, and I like to believe that there's nothing erotic about the use of the breast for the sustenance of children, but somehow, when I'm having a pleasant conversation with a woman and she suddenly pulls her top down, it's a little distracting. I think I'm playing it off okay, but it sends my brain into a little bit of a spin. Should I just not look at her, pretend to be fascinated by what Thumper's doing over there on the other side of the room, even though she's still talking, and talking to me? If I don't look, does that make it even more obvious that I'm discombobulated? Can I continue to ignore that one voice in the back of my head that's yelling, "It's a boob! It's bare! Look at it!" and still hold eye contact?

And am I glad, or maybe just a little bummed out, that I'm so non-threatening that these moms seem to give not a second thought to whipping it out in front of me?

Guest Bloggin'

Mrs. Rodius here. The Man said "Go blog for me, would ya? I got nothin' to say." So here I am. I don't know that I have much to say either, but my Darling does a lot to help me get through my days, so I figure I can return the favor.

I'm probably coming down with a cold. That's what's on my mind tonight. And breastfeeding. I have rifled through the medicine cabinet and found nothing I can take because I'm breastfeeding. There are things I can take, but I don't have any of them here. I'll have to fetch something tomorrow. But I get weary from the amount of time and energy I expend pumping milk and thinking about pumping and worrying about what I eat and worrying about not pumping enough and, and...

It's all worth it to see how well little Thumper is doing (though now I'm worried that he will get this cold) and how big he grows and grows. I'm hoping he has his Momma's constitution. I'm usually really good at staving off illness. I firmly believe that a huge part of it is that I refuse to be sick. So, I'm hoping the little guy takes after me in that regard. I'm optmistic that I'll suffer a few days of annoying pre-cold symptoms and this will pass without incident.

But, back to my annoyance. Some germ has come along and is trying to make little Thumper sick, interfere with our plans for a nice holiday, and complicate my busy work load. Who can I blame? I'll be sure to watch for suspects at work tomorrow. I've already been reviewing the candidates with the hubby tonight. There are several people at work whom I know to not wash their hands after using the bathroom. I'm not a germaphobe, but this is an unforgiveable sin. If you don't have the mind to wash your hands after using the restroom, just how likely are you to wash your hands before making a batch of brownies to share with the office? You can bet I won't be trying any of those...

Most recently, I've noted that a co-worker and former EMT only pretends to wash her hands after using the facilities, rinsing her hands under the water for less than 2 seconds and using NO soap. This, from the lady who was prattling on and on today about how she is constantly using the Company provided anti-bacterial wipes to clean up the coffee area and her desk. Harumph!

Off my soapbox now and hoping I've filled in sufficiently for The Man who is tired and needs a break tonight. One last thought, though... There is nothing sweeter than that first-of-the-morning-so-glad-to-see-you or just-got-home-and-haven't-seen-you-all-day toothless, beaming grin of little Thumper.

The Battle of the Boob

The chronology of the last few weeks is a little murky. I woke up to a screaming Thumper again this morning after several frustrating nights. After getting angry at him, and angry at Mrs. Rodius, this thought occurred to me: find a way to deal with what is, instead of getting upset that it's not something different. We'll see if I still feel that way in the wee hours. Anyway, like I said, it's all a little murky. I think this is what happened. Eh, close enough.

Like many things with which I had no previous experience, I had absolutely no understanding of the depth of complexity in the breastfeeding world. When, in our birthing class, I heard that there was a "Lactation Department" full of "Lactation Consultants" at the hospital, I thought, "Huh. A whole department for that? Babies try to suck on just about anything that comes within a foot of their mouths. How hard could it be?"

Well, hard enough. We had a few strikes against us to start. Thumper showed up a couple weeks early, and apparently those are a key couple of weeks. He should've been spending those weeks practicing sucking on amniotic fluid. Yum, right? So he didn't get the practice. And he was breech, which apparently somehow wonks him out a bit, too, though I didn't get the why's and wherefore's of that one. And that couple of weeks also meant that Mrs. Rodius wasn't quite ready in the production department. And neurologically, he was underdeveloped and had a weak suck. And his tongue is short. And Mrs. Rodius had edema. And pregnancy-induced carpal tunnel syndrome.

Which all meant that we had many frustrating hours in the hospital, with a few satisfying successes. With varying amounts of wrestling, and varying degrees of pain and exhaustion in Mrs. Rodius' hands and wrists, he'd latch on, but couldn't get enough to satisfy the nursery nurses, who said his blood sugar was too low and insisted on formula supplementation. So we bottle-fed him formula to get his blood sugar up, but we agonized over what we had heard: if you introduce the bottle before at least a few weeks have passed, you'll ruin him! He'll never breastfeed again! But it had to be better than starving the boy, right?

But the Lactation Consultants would come during the day, and he'd latch and suck away, and all seemed right with the world. Then the dark of night would come, and he'd fight and scream and refuse to latch on, and after a couple of hours of tears (his and ours) and exhaustion (his and ours), we'd give in and give him the bottle again. Then we discovered the nursery nurses were giving him a pacifier when they had him, so we righteously marked him down as "No Paci," but eventually the lure of the pacifier overcame us, and we were slipping it to him ourselves. And we were ruining him! Ruining him!

We had a few victories, when a particularly kind night nurse with five kids of her own stayed with us and helped get him latched, or when the Lactation Consultants were on duty and Thumper chose to show off for them and latch right on immediately. But mostly, it wasn't working out very well. We became intimately familiar with the football and the cross-cradle, with sideline and reverse pressure.

Eventually, one of the consultants brought us a pump to help keep up supply without relying on the boy to latch on, because protecting the supply was the most important concern. That's when it became clear that the supply wasn't really there yet, though it really began to improve before we left the hospital. It seemed like no wonder Thumper preferred the bottle to the boob, because the boob wasn't really competing yet.

With a few successful sessions here and there, though, and an ever-increasing supply and a pump of our own, we left the hospital with hope in our hearts that soon, the boy would learn to love the boob as much as his Daddy, though for admittedly different reasons. But on our own, the exhausting, painful, frustrating wrestling matches for an hour or two in the dark, desperate hours seemed insurmountable. So we called in another consultant for a house call. She had suggestions and techniques that we hadn't tried. She had tales of babies who'd learned to latch on after a couple of months. She had reassurances that the bottle did not sound the death knell of the boob. She had a highly specialized scale and a supply of extremely reassuring sympathy. She came on Tuesday, and said she'd follow up on Saturday. We had a plan of new techniques and positions, a plan of short, frequent sessions that would reduce all of our stress levels. Hope was resuscitated.

But Wednesday was a disaster, so we left her a voicemail on Thursday. She didn't call us back. She left us a voicemail on Saturday saying that she hadn't heard from us, so she was assuming everything was fine. She had her home on the market and had an open house on Saturday, so she'd follow up in a couple of days. In the meantime, Hope was starting to look a little green around the gills again. The sessions got shorter and less frequent. We were all so tired of fighting. The supply was really coming on, though, so we didn't even need to supplement with formula anymore. I shouldn't, but I kind of blame that consultant now. If she'd called me back, everything would have been idyllic. But she didn't, and between Thursday and Tuesday, pumping and bottle feeding started looking more and more inevitable, and more and more just kind of all right. I did tell Thumper that if he latched on no problem when the consultant came back, I was going to have to kick his ass. I was just kidding, though. Sort of.

And I'm only slightly ashamed to admit that I was glad when he wouldn't perform for her when she finally returned on Tuesday. He gave us a half-hearted latch-on, of which she made far too much, but he wouldn't really suck. She used a few milliliters of expressed breast milk (known to those of us in the business as EBM) to get him going, but he never really did, and when she did the "After" weigh-in, that EBM was the only extra weight on the scale. Ha ha, I say! Take that, you professional!

So we tried a few more times, but our hearts weren't really in it. Pumping and bottle feeding was working out just fine. The consultant said that many women make that choice for a variety of reasons and pointed us to pumpingmoms.org. And since ultimately our plan is for me to stay home with him during the day, we were going to have to introduce the bottle right about now anyway. So I'm fine with it. For Mrs. Rodius, though, it's much more emotional of an issue. For her, it feels like a failure and a rejection. I don't think it's either. It is what it is. I still stand amazed by the fact that not only can she grow an entire human being within her body, she can also produce all of the food required to nurture that human being and make it grow at the rate he's growing. She's producing more than he can eat. She's even been able to have the well-deserved shot of vodka that she said many months ago she would want when this whole pregnancy thing was over, because she's got enough of a supply built up that she can actually pump and dump (as we say in the business.) Woman, you are an astounding creation.

So I guess, as the reports on the Battle of the Boob come in, it looks like we may have lost the battle, but we're definitely winning the war.

Oh, and to anybody out there who says, "What's with all this 'we' crap, you Man! Stop inserting yourself into the Womanly Art of Breastfeeding! Stop oppressing me with your penis!" I say to you: I get it. At the pediatrician, after a string of questions about Mrs. Rodius, the only question they asked about me was if my last name was the same. The Consultant, too, made it clear that I was of little use except to fetch blankets with which to prop the boob or the baby, or wet washclothes with which to wake him up and stimulate him into sucking. Every time, I was the one who called her, but when she called back, she always asked for Mrs. Rodius. It's been made abundantly clear that I'm a lesser participant in the entire process. But still I say, "Screw you. I was there for all those sessions with the boob and the boy. I hunched blearily over Mrs. Rodius, trying to be her hands when her hands didn't want to anymore. I've touched my wife in ways more clinical than I ever would have foreseen. I've paced and bounced and patted Thumper to calm him when he was as inconsolably frustrated as we were. I rubbed her shoulders and told her we were doing everything right when I really wasn't sure it was true. So screw you. It was 'we' all the way."

I Solemnly Swear

When I'm an old hand at parenting, and someone says to me, "I'm pregnant!" I promise:

I will not immediately follow "Congratulations!" with tales of all of the worst pregnancy, birth, and postpartum memories I can conjure up. One well meaning family member, within five minutes of Mrs. Rodius making the Big Announcement, was regaling us with tales of her c-section, in which the doctor touched her stomach, and she threw up. Twice. A co-worker, again within only a minute or two of hearing that we were expecting, told me how the OB had to deliberately break his son's collarbone to fit him through the pelvis, and how he heard the crack. So I promise not to do the same. And if I do, I'll try to contain the glee in my voice. At least a little.

I will never use the phrase, "You'll never sleep again!" or any of its variants, such as "you better sleep now," or "you can't store up sleep, but you can at least be well rested." I'm here to tell you that "well-rested" doesn't carry you very far once you're in it. So if I get the urge myself someday to pass on these little nuggets, I will remind myself that no words can convey this hazy, shapeless time, when days smear together into one long, hallucination of waking and sleep; of desperately trying to satisfy a helpless newborn life that seems to believe he is truly dying; of glorious, glowing afternoons crashing disastrously into apocalyptic, endless hours in the dungeon of 3 a.m. I promise I will not find joy in oracling this limbo in another's future. And if I do, I'll try not to grin too wide.