Raw Milk

Today Mike and Ender and I had a proper English tea, with homemade scones, double devon cream and jam. Devon cream is a pasteurized approximation of clotted cream, which I had in York when I went to England and is the greatest thing ever. I would describe it as one step down from butter (milkfat wise) and one step up from whipped cream. You spread it on the sweet, biscuity scone and top it with some rasberry jam and it has this creamy delightful flavour. The Devon cream, which I purchased from Global Cheese in Kensington market, was very good. Not quite as good as the stuff I had in Europe though. Which got me thinking. None of the dairy products that I've had in Canada have quite compared to those that I've had in Europe. From the butter on my toast to the cream in my coffee, European milk just tastes better. And that's because a lot of it isn't pasteurized. Not pasteurized? You say. Well then it must be unhealthy! Indeed, 'raw milk' as it's called, is not good for those with compromised immune systems, or children, but it would seem people have been happily consuming it in many parts of the world for hundreds of years. And the reason that it's not recommended is based on the possibility that the milk is bad, not a certainty. As some raw milk advocates say, it's more work to keep cows healthy enough for healthy unpasteurized milk.

I also had unpasteurized milk when I was staying with the Twelve Tribes (lovely people, and I'll say more about them in a later post) during my masters thesis research on new religious movements. They had bought a cow to provide milk to the whole community. They made their own yogurt out of it, as well as drank it with mate and it was wonderful. They weren't allowed to serve it in their shop, however, due to Canadian milk law.

For more information on the raw milk debacle of late here in Canada, click here.

So I would like to make my own, proper clotted cream with it's delicate palatability, and for that it would seem I need to buy a share in a cow. Let it be so. Updates on this quest to follow.

According to the babyhawk website, my baby carrier is about to ship! Soon I'll be trucking around the city again with my baby like a free woman. I'm starting to get really cabin feverish. While this has been the easiest winter in recent memory, I still am antsy for the warm weather to return. And me, without a full time job, it's just extra sweet. I've already promised my little man that we will spend most of our time in the park, sun on our faces, grass between our toes. He'll be walking then (!) and I'll probably get rid of this doughy winter flesh simply by running after him.

I've been implementing a few steps in improving Ender's sleep, or rather, his transition into sleep. After reading a few books on the subject, even cosleeping advocates seem to agree that a bedtime routine is reassuring and healthy for children. Sometimes their days can be so chaotic and different that a little bit of familiarty really helps them wind down. I still remember coming home from a birthday party when I was 8 and being jerked out of sleep every five minutes due to half sleep hallucinations that I was still involved in a water pistol fight. So now our routine involves sitting in some warm water in the sink for about five minutes, getting toweled off and put in pj's and a fresh diaper, reading a story, and then nursing to sleep. So far it has been working fabulously, and Ender seems to think it's peachy keen. He's teething at the moment, so anything that keeps him calm and confident that the world isn't ending is a good thing.

Well, I guess that's all my friends. Nicoliosis out.

On Making Peace with Being a Homemaker in the 21st Century

When I pictured myself in a job in the future, after an array of less than glamorous professions, I said I wanted to work in an office. I've always liked the feel of offices, the scent of toner, the bland sounds of printers and phones buzzing in the distance. And after coming home every night smelling of a deep fryer, officey jobs became a shining post-graduation aspiration for me. What more could one ask for than a quiet, clean job?

I've now had three office jobs, and I now realise that the fantasy I had was not at all founded in reality. Office work is a net of bitchy power dynamics, a ruthless maintenance of the status quo. Not only did I not fit in, I was miserable. While before I had one boss, I now had five with different spheres of influence. And due to my lack of postgraduate education, and a certain part of male anatomy, I was perpetually The Secretary.

The Secretary is sometimes called an assistant, or an executive assistant, or an administrative assistant. This is to distract you from the fact that you are a secretary, just like the secretaries that went before you that got slapped on the ass as they wiggled out of the boardroom in pencil skirts. Except, instead of getting slapped on the ass, you are given performance evaluations which serve no other purpose than to remind you that you are low on the power scale, and very replaceable. The Secretary's job is to go down with the ship. If your boss makes a mistake, it was your fault that you didn't catch it. It is also The Secretary's job to have no opinion. Even if you side with your boss, you will be quickly reminded that you have no education or place to be making statements on such matters.

Finally, it is The Secretary's duty to always be in a good mood. You may weather your boss's bad mood, but never, ever may you portray that you have actual emotions. This, they tell you, should be kept at home. And as I perused the cubicles, with children's drawings posted next to every happy corporate drone's little nameplate, I felt as alien as could be. I also felt damn under appreciated, and had a serious superiority complex. And so, I am no longer The Secretary, and never again shall I be.

This is all to preface the fact that I was not prepared to be a homemaker. I had a picture in my mind of what it would be. That I would take care of the house and the child, and Mike would go to work and do his thing, and then when he came home I'd have dinner ready and we'd all recant the details of my day.

Wrong.

First of all, I have no details to my day that I see as worth recanting. Secondly, I rarely have time to stop what I'm doing for dinner. Yes, I make dinner. But I usually spend dinner trying to feed spinach to a very reluctant baby boy, bitching about the dishes. It would seem that I am still human, you see. As much as I don't look like the homemakers that went before me, with my fire engine red hair and piercing scars, I also do not act like one. I can not cheerfully go about my housework, deal with a fussy baby, and watch my husband read the newspaper. No way, no how. I'm a homemaker, not a doormat.

There is also no way that I can get all of this housework done on my own. I am constantly reminded of this, and somehow it makes me feel severely inferior. For the first time I am my own boss, and I can't get it all done. I can't pass the buck and say it's due to the fact that I'm a woman, or that I'm overqualified. I'm just tired, overwhelmed, and I need help. I need an army of caregivers, for this to be as easy as I pictured it would be.

But unlike being The Secretary, being a homemaker is rewarding. I love being able to be at home with my baby boy, even if it means that there are no more nights out at the bar, or ordering takeout. There is no more shopping trips when I'm in a bad mood, only sticky kisses from my number one fan.

So while it's not what I expected it to be, it's a lot better than everything else.



An aside: My damn mother has been sending my blog address to parenting magazines, getting my hopes up that one day I could be published. After allowing myself a moment to blissfully fantasize about what that would entail (mostly fuzzy bunny slippers and martinis), I am reminded of why I never send my work anywhere: Disappointment. I am terrified of rejection. But still, she's got a point. This is the best portfolio of work that I've ever compiled. And I can certainly rant on (and on, and on) about being a mom. Maybe I should start sending off my blog address myself...

Nah.

Tired of Breastfeeding

Don't get me wrong, I'm glad I did it. Glad enough that I think doctors should be more clear about its benefits, just for coping with a crying baby. You can't overfeed a breastfeeding baby, your breasts just make the right amount for your child. So, if he's fussing, pop him on the boob. If he just plopped himself on his face, pop him on the boob. Sure, I was chained to a nursing cushion these last nine months, but our house was as quiet as a church on a Tuesday. I also know that we've had no tummy upsets, only three colds, and one fat, happy baby. The results speak for themselves. Breastfeeding for at least the first two weeks should practically be mandatory.

However, I'm starting to get really sick of it. Google 'tired of breastfeeding' and you'll get:

A. a woman's diatribe about how she breastfed her children until they were 5(!) years old, and that women get sick of bfing around this point because we were told we needed to do it for a year. She also claims we would get sick of being pregnant for nine months if we were told we only needed to do it for six. Fair enough Debbi, but not very helpful for the nursing mom who would rather claw her breasts off than do it for another 4 years.

B. a bunch of medical info on how breastfeeding can make you tired, due to not only caloric expenditure but nutritional expenditure. I guess that's pretty obvious, but while I've been trying to make up for calories I wasn't really thinking about vitamins. I have been feeling crappy lately (aside from this current cold I have) and I wonder if that's why. Anyway, not really related, and not very helpful either.

And finally, C. Forum posts about similarly tired women, who are starting to lose the faith in the thing that they have loved for so long, but are starting to get damn sick of. Most of these women are then barraged with comments (a lot of them from lactation consultants) saying they should 'stay the course' and take it one week at a time. Basically being told that this is the only real option.

Ugh.

I know the health benefits.  I know the emotional benefits. I just want my body back.

I suppose it's superficial. I guess I'm supposed to martyr myself at this point. It's either breastmilk making up 75% of his diet or formula, and I just could NOT do that. Never. Ever. But I find myself daydreaming about weaning. Trying to get him to have just one more sip of juice, one more spoonful of food. I want to lose these breastfeeding pounds the way I know how. Caloric reduction. I want to go out for a day and not have to pump (I hate pumping with a passion) and worry whether he'll take the bottle. I want my boobs to go from DDs back to Bs.

I think the feeling may be mutual, too. I notice my little man (who sleeps in bed with me) hardly nurses at all at night now, preferring to be 'spooned' by me instead of being latched on all night long. He also has been wrestling through every feeding, which is likely the reason why I'm so tired of this whole thing.

In conclusion, my mantra shall now be: three more months, only three more months....

An Ode to my Stand Up Mixer

1.

Avocado green,
and bought in '76
you improve my life
in ways promised
by Parade magazine.

2.

I can't afford you,
10 speeds of mixing genius
from slow stir to rapid whisk
raising egg whites to cloud castles
a miracle of physics
force, equal and opposite reaction.

3.

Hook, whisk, and paddle,
recieved in '99
when I, 17 and foolish
made pastries instead of homework.

Transatlantic Dreamin'

Apologies for the last post, everyone. I wasn't in the best of moods. After a reassuring e-mail from my grandmother, whose wisdom in these vicissitudes of parenting cannot be doubted, and a lovely lighthearted visit from my father, all is well. Now, my retinas are bathed in sunshine this morn, topped with a snoozing baby in my lap, I couldn't be in a better mood.

This morning I'm looking at cruises. Transatlantic cruises to be exact. One of my pasttimes when all books are out of my reach and I'm stuck on the couch is too look up vacations that I'll never be able to afford. Not in the near future anyway. The idea of a caribbean cruise just doesn't appeal to me. I like the idea of taking a boat to get somewhere, which has become crazy and outmoded. A boat across the ocean takes approximately 14 days from what I understand, leaving from New York and arriving in my favourite of all the dead and sinking cities, Venice. After spending a week in Venice with my family, (drinking heady Italian wine along the canals, running lost, through the labyrinthine piazzas and alleyways, to find ourselves at yet another dead and watery finish to the street), we would return once again to North America by boat. On the return cruise, I would spend more time on the deck, staring out at the wide expanse of the Atlantic Ocean and put myself in the place of my relatives who all undoubtedly made that very trek. They would have smelled the same smells of the ocean, which I would guess smells quite different smack in the centre. Probably fresher and less like the wharfy smell that I associate with shore. Even my seasickness would be a testament to my pilgrimage. It would be all worth it to walk (or sail) in the footsteps of my ancestors.

Romanticism is both the folly and redemptive aspect of my character, I know.

I'm waiting for mail at the moment. Ender-boy has grown out of his baby bjorn carrier and I desperately needed a new one that I could carry him in when he's even a toddler. I've felt especially trapped in the house lately, due to the fact that taking a stroller on public transportation doesn't appeal to me, and carrying my baby feels so much more secure. I've ordered a baby hawk (in zebra print, of course) so that I may once again traipse around the city with my little papoose. I'll post pictures of me and Ender with it when it arrives, t-minus 10 days from now.

Also, Ender has begun to say 'mama' clear as a bell. Time it would seem, restless as it is, has no patience for the viscosity of experience that I so desire. He spat out the word as I was half asleep, and quickly as that it was done. Now he can speak, and the adorable muteness of babyhood is over.

Looking Back, Looking Forward

Something a little different today. I found this post in the 'drafts' section of my blog. This never was posted, and was written when Ender was two weeks old, May 20th, 2009:

Having Ender in my life has proven such a whirlwind event, that I find myself crashing on my face at 9:30 every night with a serious headache and an inability to process the way my life has changed. I imagine that this is a coping mechanism, because if I did have time to think about it, I might grieve it a little. It might bother me more.


Ender is going through a growth spurt. He has always had long sleeps and long feeds, but even moreso now. He sleeps for three intervals during the night, and has two naps during the day. In the day he will eat for sometimes three hours at a time. All I can do is sit and feed him. It's starting to make me terribly irritable, especially with this glorious weather that is just a touch too cold to nurse a newborn outside in. Plus I'm not good enough at nursing yet to do it in any precarious positions. Even when I try and do so laying down, his latch is bad and he screams out with dismay at his inability to feed what I imagine is a clawing hunger that posesses his tiny brand-new soul.

I'll be the first to admit that I've not been incredibly pleasant. I have devoted so much energy to this child that I feel too overwhelmed to deal with any other human, including myself, including my husband. I try and save smiles for him, and time for me, but most of the time my brow is furrowed and I'm totally totally lost in thought. What about? Number of wet diapers vs. number of feeds (signs of a good latch and a good feed), whether or not this nap will be the nap that means that I get to nap, and what the hell I'm going to do once Mike's paternity leave is over. This is not to mention the barrage of appointments that we need to go to in the next month. I guess the thing that worries me most is that I'll never snap out of this survival mode. I'll always be tired and crabby and bitchy, and always be desperate for a nap more than a kiss from my man. That's a scary thought, and not a reality that I want to accept.

I never posted it because I recognized the blink-in-time that it represented. I was filled with so much fear at the time. The truth is, a lot hasn't changed since then. I mean, I'm no longer afraid that Ender will fail to thrive. His chubby legs, wrists and face are a testament to the success of breastfeeding. But I am still in survival mode, and at times cracks appear in this veneer that I've developed. I get so scared. Scared that I can't do this and the things I have dreams of doing. That I'm not a good mom. That in my fear of being a bad mom I'm being an overly good mom and a bad wife.
 
The fact of the matter is that I am irrevocably changed, and feeling your personality changing is even scarier than noticing the events that change you.
 

The Importance of Sunshine

I think part of what I like so much about blogging is the ability to justify grandoise titles at least once a day.

The last week has been miserable weather. Warm, but gray. Our townhouse faces the direction of both sunrise and sunset, and is generally flooded with light. During sunny days, even in winter, we can turn off the heat and boil like orchids in a greenhouse. Surfaces are warm to the touch. Lately, however, the heat has been cranked. I wake up in the morning achey from cold and I can't seem to get warm. My outlook becomes dire. Bread doesn't rise. My son teethes and refuses to nap. I stay inside, because regardless of the warm weather, I have no need to go out if there is no sun. Both my mother and father hate the winter. I was not raised to love any winter sports, or to think of snow as creating a 'winter wonderland'. All winter long we would bitch and complain and be at eachother's throats. Then spring comes and all is forgiven.

My point is that today there is sunshine, and I didn't really notice what a terrible nose-to-the-ground kind of mood I've been in for the last seven days until the weather turned itself around. And oh, what a glorious thing sun is! Snow is falling quite rapidly, I think we may have a couple of cm by the end of the day, but I'll be just fine with that as long as the sun keeps shining.

I really can't believe how quickly the winter has been going. This is my first winter with a baby and I'm guessing that's why. Kids are such time sucks, in the best way possible. It's almost February, and I consider that to be the last month of winter.

Today I made pierogi from scratch with Mike's assistance. They were amazing. A bit-time consuming, but totally worth it.