The human pacifier

This post is going to be all about nursing, breast-feeding, boobs, breasts ... you get it.  So, if you aren't interested in reading about how very unsuccessful I have been in weaning my 20-month old, stop reading now.  Well, I warned you.

I am a huge breast-feeding advocate.  Okay, not so huge that I push my breast-feeding ways onto others or that I've joined the local La Leche League, but I really believe that there is something so incredibly special about nursing.  Not to mention it's cheap and it's a good excuse to hold your baby.  I know that nursing is not for everyone and I also know that many women have difficulties nursing.  I get that and I think everyone has to make their own choices when it comes to feeding their babies.  This post isn't about the politics, if I daresay that, of breastfeeding or formula-feeding. 

This post is about my baby's addiction to nursing. 

I have nursed all three of the babies I have birthed.  I easily weaned Jadyn when he was about a year old.  It seemed so natural to wean him, but maybe I just remember it that way.  Janessa was another story.  She nursed until she was about 2 and she also needed what I have lovingly come to refer to as boob rehab.  She, however, was forced to stop nursing for a few weeks when she was about 10 months old because I had multiple surgeries for difficult kidney stones and, come to find out, anesthesia is no good for nursing babies.  She started nursing again and it seemed with more fervor than ever.  I always thought being abruptly forced to quit nursing was a bit traumatic for her.

But, with my little Will, I have literally become a human pacifier.  He is quite past needing the nourishment that comes from what little milk I feel like I'm producing.  In fact, he will now reach into my shirt, while saying, "boobie," and proceed to try and nurse.  This is quite embarrassing when we're in public or when we have company over. 

And, the thing is, I am READY to wean him.  I know that he is my last baby, but I am not trying to hold on.  I have thoroughly enjoyed nursing him, but for the life of me, this child will not wean.  It is like he is dying when I do not give in to his demands for the boob. 

My husband thinks that this giant child still nursing from my chest is quite ridiculous and has renamed our household Africa because there are boobs flying just as freely in our home as there are in a National Geographic spread on African tribal women.  My children also think little Will has gone too far and they are  constantly telling him to step away from the boob.  I'm just not sure I have it in me to battle this child who seems to need just a few moments of nursing to be fine.  I've tried giving him a pacifier.  He spits that right out.  I've even tried teaching him how to suck a finger or thumb.  He doesn't like that.  A blankie and stuffed animal definitely don't do the trick.  Nothing else seems to satisfy. 

I have jokingly wondered if he will go to pre-school still needing to nurse.  Now I wonder if that will actually come true.  I have to be gone for four days in February.  I'm hoping that will do the trick.  If not, if you ever see us out in public and my toddler is pulling at my shirt, you will know why.  I am a human pacifier. 

Cancer, has it really been 20 years?

I met cancer for the first time 20 years ago this week.  I was looking forward to my 11th birthday when he came barreling into my life completely unexpected.  I knew very little about him back then, but he would take residence in my home for the next 10 years, really.

It was the second week of January 1991.  My parents had spent the weekend out of town.  They said they just wanted to spend some time together.  My older sister Pam and I didn't think much of that.  We only knew my parents to be head over heels for each other.   But when they came back on Sunday, they told us they needed to talk to us about something.  My 10-year-old brain couldn't anticipate the gravity of the news they were about to share as we took our usual places at the dinner table.

My dad broke the news.  It's been so long now that I can't remember his exact words.  But he told us that my mother was sick.  Doctors were sure it was cancer; they just didn't know what kind.  Ovarian cancer, maybe.  Stomach cancer, possibly.  This new, rare type of cancer called lymphoma.  They were hoping it wasn't that type.  What they knew for sure was that my mother had a football-size tumor in her lower abdomen.  That explained my mom's backaches and her inability to sleep. 

But, cancer?

My dad told us the news and then sobbed.  It was the first time I had seen my dad cry openly.  My mother had her back to the patio door and the winter sun streamed in around her.  Her long, dark hair rested gently on her shoulders.  She hugged Pam and I as we told her how much we loved her.  I cried and could not comprehend life without my mommy.  This was back when cancer was almost always a death sentence.  Not many people survived.  If you did, you were lucky.  It was a disease that still mystified doctors.

A couple weeks later, doctors informed my mother that she had non-Hodgkins lymphoma.  I had never heard of this, but of course, I was 10.  My life consisted of school, Barbies and sleep-overs.  What my parents did not tell us at the time was that doctors only gave my mom a 20 percent survival rate. 

She started chemo almost instantly.  She doctored in Minneapolis and received treatments at Abbott Northwestern Hospital.  Her sickness didn't become real to me until she started to lose her hair.  My mom had the best hair.  She first got cancer at 48.  And even at 48, my mom had this dark, long wavy hair.  It was hair of an 18-year-old.  Her hair started falling out in clumps, though, to the point that she was bald.  She got a wig, but I thought my mom looked the best when she just wore her fancy turban.  And, she had so many pills to take.  There were pill bottles everywhere.  Our countertop looked like the storage shelves at a pharmacy.   Yet, my mother went to work every day, no matter how sick she was.   She is the epitome of a working mother.  She still went to as many of our activities as possible.  She went to church.  She loved us unconditionally, despite her body's complete demise. 

At night, I would go in to my parents' bedroom and listen to my mom breathe.  I just wanted to make sure she was going to wake up in the morning.  She did every morning, although I worried constantly about what my life would be like without her.  Six months after she started chemo, doctors discovered that her tumor was gone.  Her blood work even showed the cancer was gone.  It was a miracle, literally.  Her doctor couldn't understand how quickly her tumor had disappeared.

We celebrated the fact that she was in remission.  Doctors told us that if she could make it to the five-year mark she would likely be in the clear forever.

Fast-forward to the check-up just before her five-year remission mark and doctors found the cancer was back.  How could this be?  She was almost at the five-year mark.  It seemed like a cruel twist of fate.  And, I was no longer a bright-eyed 10 year old.  I was a teenager.  And to be completely honest, my mom and I struggled like many mother/teenage-daughter relationships.  The truth is my mom could see right through me and I didn't like it. 

This time, though, doctors were worried.  When non-Hodgkins lymphoma comes back, it has a habit of returning again and again, each time doing more destruction.  Doctors thought my mom's only hope for a real "cure" was to do a bone marrow transplant.  They would take my mom's own bone marrow, clean it, re-harvest it and then give it back to her.  This meant, however, that she would have to stay at Abbott in Minneapolis until this process was complete. 

By this time, I was the only child left in the house.  So, every day my dad would drive to Minneapolis and leave me to tend to myself.  I would get to school on my own, made sure I had a lunch, go to my afternoon sports, do my homework and then many days I would also drive to Abbott to see my mom.  It didn't matter that this small-town girl was driving to Lake Street in Minneapolis at night.  I would have walked through gun fire if it meant I got to see my mom one last time.

Once there, I'd have to wash my hands, put on a mask and robe just to see my mommy.  Her immunity was zero.  The treatment wreaked complete havoc on my mom's body.  I would often cry on my drives back to Owatonna after seeing her.  Yet, every time I saw her, we would talk about me.  She never cried.  She always had hope.  At the time, that was just my mother.  I was so absorbed in myself that I couldn't see how extraordinary this was.  This woman was dying and all she could think about was me.  I begged her to be home in time for my spring junior/senior banquet so she could see me off.  She came home, now I know against her doctor's wishes, just to be there to see me in my prom dress.  The next week she had to go back to the hospital.

Cancer would eventually leave us after that spring.  He took a part of my mother, though.  It's hard to describe, but my mom didn't rebound as easily the second time around.  When I asked her last night if it had really been 20 years since she was first diagnosed, she paused then laughed a bit and said, "Yeah, I guess it has."  It didn't really phase her.  When I told her that I was glad she survived and that I was happy she was my mom.  She said almost in tears, "Well, I'm happy I survived, too, and I'm so glad you're my daughter."  That is my mother.   

Now that I'm a mom, I realize the absolute incredible nature of what my mom went through.  I also realize that even though my mom and I had a love-hate relationship when I was a teen, mommys are so important.  Everything they go through really does shape a child's life.  I am fortunate to say that I have a mom and that my mom is the ultimate survivor.  I'm also fortunate that my mom has become my best friend.  What cancer didn't know 20 years ago is that he knocked on the door of a survivor.  I'm proud to say that survivor & that woman is my mother.

Slave to a Calendar

I don't know about the rest of you, but my family's calendar is packed.  No, packed isn't even the right word.  It is overflowing some days.  For those of you with calendars or white boards hanging from your refrigerators listing your daily activities or for those of you who have your daily appointments tucked neatly away in your Blackberry, you know what I'm talking about.  Just to give you a better picture of this, last Saturday my youngest daughter had a gymnastics meet in one town, my oldest son had a basketball tournament in another town and my oldest daughter had a day of volleyball games in yet a third town.  To complicate matters, all three of these towns were at least 45 miles from our town and we were down to one vehicle at the time.  How could this possibly work?

Well, with the help of grandparents and some vehicle ping pong, we got each child to where they were supposed to be.  At the end of the day, though, I was exhausted.  And, yet, I was pulled to my family calendar, under its magical spell, to sort out the next week's activities and plan on how I'm going to be in three places at once again.  Don't get me wrong.  Having everything written down and planned out actually calms me down.  I need to have my life sorted out into nice little blocks of time, and honestly, it's the only way my family would get anywhere.  But at the same time, I have been wondering a lot lately, why are we so driven to be everything to everyone?  Would it really kill me or my children if we didn't sign up for every activity on the planet?  Could we still be validated as human beings if we simply did nothing? 

I don't really do resolutions for the new year, but I do like to reflect on areas of my life that could really use some work.  This whole calendar business is one of them.  Really, it's not about our calendar.  It's about being so busy that we don't have time to just be.  I recently posted on Facebook that I'd like to spend less time doing and more time simply being.  In a world where people are now defined more by accomplishments and achievements, it's hard to simply be.  That doesn't sit well with me. 

One of my best friends gave me a book after the birth of my youngest son.  What is so amazing and divine, in my eyes, is that she just tossed in a couple books that she thought I could read in some of my down time.  It was part of a baby gift meant for the mommy.  What I don't think she realized is how much I truly needed what is in this book.  "breathe" by Keri Wyatt Kent invites readers to re-evaluate their priorities, priorities that often get lost in a culture that focuses on material things, getting to the top of the career ladder and calendars, like mine, filled to the edges.  Really, it's a challenge to slow down and create meaningful space in which we and our families can live more balanced lives. 

I can tell you that my calendar will likely be filled for months to come.  It's just the product of four, very busy children and two working parents.  But I can also tell you that I am going to work on being more intentional about the moments in that calendar.