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I am so blessed. For two years I have had the privilege of nurturing, growing and loving a wondrous little person. She is a gift from God, and she has taught me more about being a mother than any other person could. She teaches me every day to delight in life, in little things, in all things. She teaches me the immeasurable value of small gestures, tiny smiles, tight hugs and wet kisses. She shows me how truly lovely life is.

I am so exceptionally happy.

it's bad advice to starve a child

As I type this - one-handed - I am defying my daughter's pediatrician's orders.

He told me to stop breastfeeding.

At least during the day.  Her iron count, hemoglobin and B12 counts are quite low because she won't eat solid food, she'll only breastfeed.  His solution is for me to refuse to nurse her during the day so that "she'll learn to eat".  He also suggested that we put her in a private daycare because seeing other children eat is all she needs to help her start eating.

We won't be returning to that pediatrician's office.  Because while I am in utter agreement that she needs more than she is currently getting, I absolutely refuse to starve her, refuse to deny her her primary comfort, refuse to hand her over to strangers for the majority of her day.  Refuse.

Fortunately, I have a friend who's an Occupational Therapist, and she's given us some sound advice for troubleshooting this, and is going to find some names of other OTs in the area who specialise in peds.  Here's hoping.

Parents, remember: just because the 'advice' you're given comes from a man in a white lab coat doesn't mean it's good advice.  Remember, always remember: be vigilant, and think for yourself.  Otherwise you might end up agreeing to starve your child.

Breastfeeding: a mother's story

I was asked recently to write an article about my breastfeeding relationship with my 16 month old daughter.  It was published in the current issue of Women's Voice, a quarterly online publication.  With permission, I'm republishing it here.

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In the first days and weeks following our daughter’s birth, breastfeeding posed such a challenge, such an immense difficulty, that I could not have guessed that we would be fortunate enough to still be breastfeeding even a few months later, let alone well over a year later. Now my daughter is 16 months old, and still nursing. Not only is she still nursing, she is, in all her toddler-hood, still exclusively breastfed. She eats no solid food at all.

It was a difficult road to get here. Born at 36 weeks gestation, she refused to latch well, barely opening her mouth. Everyone checked for tongue-tie, but no cause for her difficulty was ever found. I began a long and constant relationship with an electric breastpump, a machine I grew to both adore – it was, after all, establishing, increasing, and maintaining my milk supply better than my daughter was – and loathe. I was on various herbs and eventually prescribed Domperidone, which I took in handfuls daily. At long last, at almost 7 weeks postpartum, with a child who had still only gained about one pound more than her birth weight of 5lb 8oz, we drove to Toronto to meet the great man himself, Dr. Jack Newman. He looked at my daughter, helped us latch, looked me in the eye and said, “You’re doing fine.”

Three days later, Glynis opened her mouth. Later that week, I took our breastpump back to the lactation consultant who had rented it to us. Soon I was off the Domperidone as well. We were finally on our own, and I was elated.

As the months passed, our nursing relationship became stronger and more confident. We were pros. I could – and would – nurse her anywhere and anytime. I nursed her in coffeeshops. I nursed her in the park; is there anything more sublime than nursing outside in the afternoon sun? I nursed her while taking Communion at church, right in our pew. After our terrible, debilitating struggle, one through which I wept more tears than any mother should while loving her newborn, we had settled into a comfortable and delightful pattern of natural nursing. We had no schedules, I watched no clocks: I just nursed her whenever she needed or wanted.

Eventually the day came at about 7 months old when we offered Glynis her first solid food – it happened to be roasted sweet potato wedges. But she wasn’t interested. What was truly remarkable was that she remained entirely disinterested in solid foods as the days, then weeks and finally months went by. Her first birthday came. There was to be no crazed picture of a tiny child smeared with chocolate and icing for her baby album: she examined the icing and then entirely ignored the cupcake which sat before her.

But she nursed! She nursed quickly, and slowly; she nursed at length, and in tiny snacks. She nursed first thing in the morning and to sleep in bed at night. She remained, as ever, round and pink, plump and robust: the very picture of health. At her final well-baby weigh-in, the nurse looked at her, lying in her diaper on the changing pad, kicking and playing, round and adorable, and shook her head: “She’s perfect. That’s a perfect baby.”

And so we continued. As my friends and acquaintances weaned their babies and toddlers, as I read of the horrible backlash against breastfeeding and breastfeeding mothers, as I encountered terrible stories and commentaries in which the mothers of nursing toddlers and older children were denigrated and insulted, slandered and shamed, we continued to nurse.

When this magazine goes live, Glynis will be 16 months old. She is, at the time of writing, still exclusively breastfed. She has virtually no interest in solids – though she did nibble a grape earlier today – and my milk is her sole source of nutrition. I like to say that after so many weeks of worrying that we would never have an easy, relaxed nursing relationship, she’s more than paying me back for persevering.

Glynis, my husband and I are surrounded by children who eat entire meals, who feed themselves with forks and spoons, who consume hard biscuits and meats and sandwiches and vegetables. It is unfathomable to most everyone we know that she is entirely satisfied on my milk alone. It is equally unfathomable that we are all happy with this arrangement: surely I must need a break! In truth, there are days when I would relish handing her a fistful of Cheerios to keep her occupied while I eat my own lunch or finish reading something or get some dishes washed. And I’m a little envious of the parents I know who are learning what foods their toddlers love, who laugh as their children feed themselves awkwardly and enthusiastically.

But I know that Glynis’ day will come. Moreover, on that day, I will know that I did not rush her, did not push her or her body to try something for which she was not yet ready. And I will know that I allowed her to be as close, as connected, as intimate and as much a baby as she’s needed to be, for as long as she’s needed.

Through this extended and extraordinary nursing relationship, I have gained a profound respect for my body. I was able not only to grow a tiny baby, but to nourish and grow a toddler, on nothing but my milk. It is truly remarkable to me that we are, to quote Ina May Gaskin, so “wonderfully made” that the food of our bodies, the milk of our breasts, is enough to sustain and satisfy even an energetic, active and growing child. This is an important and valuable lesson for us, as women and mothers, to remember: our bodies are able to accomplish amazing things, if only we will let them.

Who's driving this thing, anyway?

It occurs to me that I haven't introduced myself.  There is some personal history that motivates me to write this blog and advocate to anyone who'll listen - and speak loudly enough that those who choose to disregard me cannot help but overhear - about birth choice.

In May of 2008, I gave birth, vaginally and without pain management or medical intervention, to our daughter, Glynis, after 35 weeks 5 days gestation (or exactly 36 weeks, depending on how you choose to do the math).  We were attended by a midwife and a midwifery student who acted as our doula.  Ours was a hospital birth, and a pediatrician was present because of the pre-term nature of our daughter's birth.  Despite the research, and her APGAR of 9 at birth, Glynis was clamped and cut immediately, and handed to the pediatrician to be taken across the room to where I could barely see her to be poked and examined.  My midwife administered a shot of pitocin to chemically manage the third stage of labour.  I didn't get to hold my baby, my first child, for about an hour after her birth.

My labour was fantastic.  It really was.  I can't say enough good things about how it felt to be swept along on the power of physiological labour.  It was awesome to see how my body could be so strong, so amazing, so powerful.  But the circumstances surrounding the immediately ante-natal period are just not good.  Our choices were ignored, our birth plan disregarded, our consent not obtained, and evidence-based care not administered.

It was months, truly, before I became angry about the circumstances of our daughter's birth.  For 8 weeks following her birth, we fought like hell to establish a successful breastfeeding relationship - and we did succeed, thanks to Dr. Jack Newman's help and support via email and one 7-hour long drive to see him - so I was just happy that my baby was healthy.  But as time and distance allowed me a more objective perspective, I began to realise that what had transpired was not acceptable.  It was not necessary for things to have occurred as they did, and events as they played out may have even exacerbated our trouble with nursing.*

By many perspectives, I had a good birth.  I am "lucky".  I "should be happy".  And, comparatively, I am.  I could have had an ob who tried to pressure me into an unnecessary epidural.  I could have had my child whisked off to the NICU and fed formula and sugar water just because of her dates and birth weight (5.5 lb: pretty good for a 36 weeker, actually) regardless of her actual health.  I didn't, and for that I am, most definitely, glad.  But her birth could have been handled better.  It should have been handled better.

So now I advocate.  I try to educate.  I speak loudly and passionately about birth choice and informed consent and refusal and evidence-based care.  I encourage women to ask questions, to listen to their gut, and to really think about what they want and think is best.

*half-way down the page: “It seemed to me that the babies in which we had delayed cord-clamping were just stronger. They nursed better, they were calmer babies.”