If you're a mom, you have more than likely heard the above statement.
And as a mom you've made a choice, to either breastfeed/ebf or formula feed. Now granted, I believe breastmilk is the best food for baby. It's how God engineered feeding to be. He created boobs, not formula, BUT I don't believe this makes formula a wrong choice.
I entered the mothering world thinking that there was a right choice and a wrong choice in feeding. But that's just not how it is. Formula may not be quite as nutritionally complete as breastmilk, but that doesn't mean it's bad for baby.

When pregnant with my first child I decided I was going to breastfeed. Not because the idea was particularly enticing or that I thought I had too if I wanted a healthy baby. The more compelling reason for me, was that I wanted to fit in. The majority of mothers in my church breastfed their babies, and I had seen just a few give condescending stares to those who did not.

Shortly after my son was born I took him to my breast. The pain that came with his latching on took my breath away. I winced while he fed. Every feeding of that first day was the same. By nightfall I was blistered and too tender to even wear my hospital gown over my chest. A lactation consultant checked his latch and said it was fine. She made sure I wasn't dealing with inverted nipples. She told me nothing should be causing such blistering and such pain. So I kept going.

I kept going, through 4 bouts of mastitis. I kept going even when thrush came and the sucking was so excruciating I wept for the duration of each feeding. I kept going with blisters on my nipples that wouldn't heal, even with the help of medicated gel pads.
I felt so confused. Women had told me that breastfeeding done right shouldn't hurt. Now they were telling me that it hurts for a few weeks but then goes away. So I waited for the pain to end. It never did. What was wrong with me? Why wasn't this working? I felt ragged, physically and emotionally. Just the thought of putting my son to my breast made me cry. Six weeks of breastfeeding and it had only gotten worse. So I quit.

At first I was overwhelmed with guilt, wondering how my baby would turn out on formula. Wondering which of my acquaintances might lose interest in being my friend now that I wasn't doing the "right" thing.
But the guilt began to subside as I realized I was now enjoying feeding my son. I was bonding with him during bottle feedings better than I ever had simply gritting and crying through the pain of breastfeeding. I realized I wasn't so irritable anymore, I didn't cry every single day anymore and I actually felt so much happier.

Seventeen months later our second child came into the world. We were happy to have him of course, but we had conceived him a little earlier than we had anticipated. I was nowhere near ready to give breastfeeding another try so I hand pumped for a week (not as painful) to give new baby some colostrum and then stopped when my milk came in. I might have tried just pumping him milk after that had we been able to afford something other than a cheap hand pump.

Now, even though my first experience with breastfeeding was so painful and I had realized that formula was not a "bad" thing, I still dreamt of being able to succesfully breastfeed a child.

My daughter was born a little over 3 months ago. She arrived almost 4 years after my second and I had decided I wanted to do everything I could to make breastfeeding work. This time we were able to afford some additional supplies so I equipped myself.
I bought an electric pump, a boppy, lansinoh, gel pads, nipple shields, anything I thought might give me more of a chance.

The first day she fed, echoed the day of my first child's birth. Once again the Lactation Consultant couldn't understand the blistering and pain with such a perfect latch.
She recommended I mostly pump with one or two nursing sessions a day and perhaps I could gradually work my way into full nursing.

It was still excruciating for 4 weeks as I pumped and breastfed. But I think that the pumping and gradually working my way into nursing, was key. By the end of week 4 she was on the breast alone and amazingly by the end of week 5 I was only grimacing slightly at each feeding. Now I wonder that it ever hurt me so bad. I absolutely love nursing! It's easier than mixing and heating a bottle and it's free! But I love it most because it's a miracle. I marvel at this body God has created and that it alone can sustain this precious little life for so many months. If you have the chance to experience the wonder of it, I would encourage it! But don't burden yourself with guilt if you can't or if you choose not too. Our personal decisions are just that - personal. We have no idea what motivations are behind others decisions and we should not assume we do. There is no, "one size fits all" standard for motherhood. And we as mothers, most of all, should understand this and treat with kindness and understanding other mothers we meet along the way.

(originally posted at http://summersnook.wordpress.com)

In no particular order:

1. She's swaying back and forth with purse in arm




2. She calls her childless friend and says she wants to get together for a playdate




3. The yellowish stain on her right shoulder




4. That wet spot over her left boob




5. She tells you her toilet tries to overflow on a regular basis ever since her toothbrush vanished




6. She starts humming the Backyardigans Theme song




7. Her shopping cart is full of mac n' cheese, cheerios and fruit snacks




8. When frustrated with her husband she calls him 3 different names before getting the right one




9. The pieces of granola bar she has evidently sat on




10. She excuses herself from her friends saying, "I have to go potty"

(originally posted at http://summersnook.wordpress.com)

There is a giant range of experiences we can have in life. They are of course either good or bad, and they affect the kind of person we grow into to. For me, it often seems easier to focus on the troubles I've had. But I have begun to see that with the trouble, come great opportunities for learning and growth. Troubles also generally come with little miracles. Things that are small, but just big enough to give hope or confidence in taking another step out to face the world again. When I look back and think, “How did I ever get through that?” The fine details begin to appear.

Have you ever loved someone so much you would do anything for them? Even die for them? That kind of love is the most beautiful creation we have been given. To be able to love like that is a gift that surpasses all other beauties. Most of us love our families like that from the beginning. Our parents, siblings, spouse and children. But it can be learned as well.
Have you ever had a friend mean that much to you? Have you ever loved a friend so much it hurts. You hurt when they hurt. You would give your soul to make them happy. It is overpowering, exhausting to feel this way and yet I would never have changed the passion I felt, the love I felt for my best friend, even though it sometimes hurt.

Sherise spent her first 14 years of life in Southern California. Nearly half the population is Hispanic. She had friends that were hispanic all her life. Dating them, however, created a problem with her parents as she found out after they had moved to my neighborhood.
I remember Juan from grade school and junior high. A shy, quiet, pudgy boy with a warm smile. When I saw him next in high school after a few years, he had gotten taller, had slimmed down a little, but he still had that warm smile, those dark eyes. Sherise really liked him. They were “going out”. She asked him to a dance. I wanted to go too, but I didn’t attend their High school and I was afraid of boys. So I decided to skip the dance, but go on the date prior to the dance, as a fifth wheel (another couple was coming with us).
We went down to the local college campus. The boys were blindfolded and were walked through the arboretum. They were trying to guess where they were. After we removed the blindfolds we sat down and had a picnic lunch. Then we went to the game center and went bowling.

I remember a few months after that, I had to go with my school to the local college for the
language fair. I saw the railing that Juan’s hand had slid along as he walked up the steps those few months ago. His hands that would never feel anything again.

A month after my fifth wheel date, Juan asked Sherise to Homecoming. This is where Sherise’s parents stepped in. She told me they sat down with her to have a chat. They told her that you marry who you date, so she should be careful. I was furious. Careful, why careful? Just around Juan? Because he was hispanic?!?
They said they had seen other cultural marriages fall apart because of the difference in beliefs or ways of doing things. Juan had lived in America nearly his whole life. Spanish was his first language but he had no accent at all when he spoke English. He was an American citizen, he lived life like any other American. I was so angry that they asked Sherise not to date him anymore.
At a school fundraiser, a car wash shortly after her parents had spoken with her, Sherise told Juan what her parents had told her. She told him it didn’t mean anything, that she cared for him and wanted to be with him. He was quiet, then got in his car and sped away.
As she told me this on that Saturday night, I envisioned the entire thing and suddenly I said, “Sherise, brace yourself, Juan may commit suicide.” Were those words given me to help us prepare? That was the last time Sherise saw Juan alive.

We had known he suffered from depression, just like Sherise and I both did. But we didn’t
know that things were so dire for him that he would snap. That the moment Sherise told him about her parents concerns, was his breaking point.
I rememberthe following Monday, another friend came to visit me. She had news about Juan. He had been found in the Canyon, a lawn mower in the back of his car, all the windows shut tight, Juan not breathing.
Dead.
Dead.
Dead.

I didn’t see Sherise for a few days. The police had come to talk to her about what had happened before this event. She was numb, she was in shock. I was numb, I was in sock. And then, then, I was angry. I was furious that Juan would do something so heart breaking. He was gone, and I hurt more for Sherise at that time than I’ve ever hurt for anyone. I knew him too and was sad, but Sherise? What must she be thinking?
She was thinking she was to blame. Rumors abounded at school. People called her racist,
nobody had the right story, not even the newspapers. Sherise received death threats in the mail, which her mother hid from her and told her years later about.
Why are people so quick to hate without really knowing why or if they are justified in doing so. And is anyone really ever justified in feeling pure hatred for another? There are much better things to feel in this world than hate, that venom that poisons the soul.

The impact that Juans death had on me and everyone around me was huge. I saw and I felt what it was like to lose someone by suicide, and I knew that never again would I seriously consider taking my own life. But I wanted to know how I would make it through without seeking into despair. For years I had struggled with severe depression. I blamed myself for it, telling myself it was all in my mind and I could fix it. I was wrong.
I talked to two of my friends at school about killing myself, all the time. One of them always laughed and made some joke about it, the other always smiled and said I shouldn’t talk about things like that and quickly changed the subject. It was a cry for help that they didn’t understand.
The suicide of my friend was devastating, but I decided to learn from it. I learned to turn to a better source of relief. I turned to God. I came closer to him than I had in a long time. On my knees, I wept. I cried out in anger asking him why. I begged him to help me be strong in fighting the thorn in my side. I felt his presence many a time in those dark hours and eventually I pulled through, stronger and with a greater knowledge of the love of my family, friends and Heavenly Father. I learned, that as I loved and hurt for Sherise, God loved and hurt for me. He wanted to help me pull through, and only waited for me to ask him.

I learned never to discount the feelings I have about calling someone, or just dropping by to say hi. We are often the vessels through which God answers others prayers, and what if we aren't listening to him? I am so grateful for those who were listening to God in my time of despair, and I try hard to do the same.

(originally posted at http://summersnook.wordpress.com)

"Go and play your video game," says Nice Mama to her sons. "I'm going to clean your room for you today."

"Oh cool! Thanks," says one son, giving mama a hug, "You're a nice Mama."

What he doesn't realize is that Nice Mama, is really, Mama with Ulterior Motive, in disguise. She smiles as she sends them on their merry way, 13 gallon trash bag clenched in the fist behind her back. She walks backwards down the hall, into their bedroom and bolts the door.

MUHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

The day of reckoning has come. Toys used only for mess making are tossed into lightly scented plastic oblivion. Perhaps other little boys will actually play with them.

A knock on the door causes Mama with Ulterior Motive to pause.

"Mama, whats dat sound?" boy says

"Drat!! He's onto me!" she thinks.

Gathering her thoughts she replies, "I'm just putting some trash in a trash bag."

She struggles to sound reassuring. She knows the boys will never miss these particular toys, but if they discover her plans there will be wailing and gnashing of teeth!

"You're not trashing my toys right?" says five year old boy.

How in the flippin' heck does he sense these things?

"No, not trashing them," she says, putting perhaps too much emphasis on the word trashing.

"Go back and play your game now honey," she instructs.

Five year old leaves. In a whirlwind effort, the remaining offending toys are added to the bag. Mama with Ulterior Motive slowly opens the bedroom door, peeks out, and seeing that the coast is clear, books it into her bedroom where she promptly stashes said bag of toys high in the closet. Daddy will take them to the car after bedtime.

Straightening her shirt and wiping the slight perspiration from her brow, Mama with Ulterior Motive smiles. She walks toward the living room, a slight spring in her step.

Mission accomplished.

(originally posted at http://summersnook.wordpress.com)