Holidays are for the dogs

This past weekend we celebrated our Pratt family Christmas at my parents' home in Bethany, Ontario. This side of the family usually plans our get-togethers a little late, in order to accomodate our ever growing families. A was delighted to have 4 furry friends attend the party:

Abby the Lab enjoyed knocking over the small children with her All-Mighty Tail

Misty, the long-haired Jack Russell, regaled us all with her agility by jumping into our arms from the ground up!

Darcy the Pug was quite put out by this unplanned doggy bash, as she feels she is the Queen Dog and should be consulted on such matters.

Ripper, the short-haired Jack Russell, is not pictured here. He is 15-years old, and a cranky senior. He spent the party snoozing in his bed upstairs, and was then sent to the neighbours house while we ate. Ripper has a habit of snatching food off of unsuspecting children.

The humanoids amongst this doggy party enjoyed themselves very much (a little too much?) by drinking large amounts of alcohol and consuming steaming bowls of chilli and plates of scalloped potatoes, ham and salads. The night was finished off with a plethora of sweets and hot, creamy coffee.

Time to get going on those health-related resolutions....

Love the face in your mirror

Here is me with my hair recently lopped off:

The most exciting part about this is that I've found THE ONE. No, not my soul mate (I've already found him - he's been around for quite some time now). I mean THE ONE - the hair stylist I've been searching for for 8 years.

I'm not a hair person. I'm not really a makeup, or jewellery, or accessory person either. My friends can attest to the fact that I've been known to wear t-shirts with dogs on the front. I rarely buy new clothes, and I think I still have some items hanging around from high school (that was over 10 years ago).

It's not like I go to work looking like a slob or anything, but on my days off, you can usually find me in very old (saggy) jeans, a t-shirt and some kind of sweater. I'm the sweater girl.

So the fact that I've recently become interested in how my hair looks is a huge step forward for me. As I mentioned in my last post, I used to have fairly nice, curly hair. It was easy to manage - I never bothered straightening it. But since having a baby, I've lost most of it down the drain, and it's become very long, heavy and dry.

When I was living in St. Catharines, Ontario during university, I found an amazing hair stylist just down the street from my house. I walked in for a cut one day, and came out looking like I was ready for the red carpet. Since that time, I've gone from salon to salon, never being totally satisfied with how my hair was either cut or styled. Stylists tend to get excited when they cut my hair because they look forward to straightening it for me. They seem to think that I might enjoy straight hair because I never do it for myself.

The problem is that I look really funny with straight hair. My nose seems to stick out on my face, and I never receive any compliments about it. My husband hates when I come home with straight hair! And other than loving the feeling of it being soft and silky smooth, I'm not too partial to it either. I have a strong belief that people look the best when they go "natural." That doesn't mean that you can't shape or style your hair, but that you shouldn't try to change the natural texture (curly, wavy, straight etc.) I do sympathize with those with frizzy hair though, because I deal with that on a regular basis!

It's hard finding time to take care of yourself in our busy world. A lot of women I know would rather take a nap than worry about their hair, face, nails, or clothes. And that's ok! But when you find yourself down in the dumps, a trip to the salon can be the best thing going. I was joking with the stylist that although I'm committed to buying only natural makeup products and organic soaps, I seem to throw my ideals out the window when it comes to a day at the spa. Mousse scented like vanilla? Slather that stuff on! Nail polish that could kill a cat with its fumes? Apply away! I'm very guilty of contradicting my beliefs when it comes to brightening my day.

So feeling like a million bucks, I'm off to Peterborough tomorrow to visit the family. Will post again soon!

For the days when I have no money to spend on the salon, I like to listen to this song by Jann Arden and appreciate my life as it is, hair or no hair:

I've got money in my pocket,
I like the color of my hair.
I've got a friend who loves me,
Got a house, I've got a car.
I've got a good mother,
and her voice is what keeps me here.

Feet on ground,
Heart in hand,
Facing forward,
Be yourself.
I've never wanted anything.
No I've, no I've, I've never wanted anything,
so bad..(so bad).

Cardboard masks of all the people I've been
Thrown out, with all the rusted, tangled
dented God Damned miseries!!
You could say I'm hard to hold,
But if you knew me you'd know,
I've got a good father,
And his strength is what makes me cry.

Feet on ground,
Heart in hand,
Facing forward,
Be yourself.
I've never wanted anything,
No I've, no I've, I've never
wanted anything so bad..(so bad).

I've got money in my pockets,
I like the color of my hair.
I've got a friend who loves me,
Got a house, I've got a car.
I've got a good mother,
and her voice is what keeps me here.

Feet on ground,
Heart in hand,
Facing forward,
Be yourself.

Heart in hand,
Feet on ground,
Facing forward,
Be yourself.
just be yourself.
just be yourself.

Hair today, gone tomorrow

Here is me at Christmas. I look a bit tired (no makeup on). You might be able to see my hair, although it blends in well with the tree. My hair has gotten way too long and unmanageable. During my pregnancy, I had beautiful soft curls. Since having a baby, half my hair has fallen out, I have funny little fly-aways sticking up everywhere, and my curls have the consistency of hay that horses might munch on.

So tomorrow, it is off with the hair! I can't wait. Very excited to have much shorter hair, and hoping that the new hair stylist I'm seeing doesn't make me look like little orphan Annie.

Stay tuned for an updated pic...

Weighty Stuff

This is a recent picture of our daughter, A, over the Christmas holidays. Look closely at this image. Study all the details you can. Because I have some serious questions for you to answer.

Does this child look sick to you? Malnourished in any way? Suffering from a strange disease called my-mother-doesn't-feed-me-well?

No? Well then why, when I go to visit our family doctor for A's shots, do I get told that there are issues with her weight? This is how the situation usually unfolds:

1. Mom and A are led into examination room. Mom attempts to distract A with the doctor's wheely chair
2. Nurse enters with scale and measuring tape. A is undressed and sumitted to growth tests
3. Mom axiously looks at the scale, and sees that A has not gained the right amount of weight.
4. Nurse leaves. A is now naked, running around the examination room, pulling open drawers labelled "pap smears."
5. Mom and A wait...and wait....and wait
6. Doctor enters the room. All serious-like. Sits down, and says "now, there's a couple of things we need to talk about. We're concerned about A's weight."
7. Mom groans inwardly
8. A screams in glee, and begins pulling all objects out of Moms' purse and throwing them onto the floor.

By the end of these visits, I'm exhausted from dealing with A and trying to talk seriously to the doctor at the same time (we all know how hard it is to carry on a conversation while trying to make sure your child doesn't do something to harm him/herself).

To give the doctor credit, he first asked me what I thought might be wrong, and also asked me whether I believed something should be done about it. I stated the argument that I use frequently: she looks healthy and I think those growth charts are rubbish (I don't think I used this language, but you get the idea).

The growth chart that is used by most doctors here in Canada was first developed for testing with inner-city children in the U.S. The data was derived from the growth of Caucasian children in Boston between 1930 and 1956. This data has since been updated, and the WHO has come up with its own references for growth charts. However:

"Concern has been expressed in the literature that breast-fed infants, living under favourable conditions, were growing less well than expected when compared to the [WHO] growth reference." (WHO website, 2011)

Breast-fed babies have been found to grow less rapidly than formula-fed babies, and therefore end up deviating away from the reference data, i.e., they fall of the charts.

So A is now off the chart in terms of weight, and the doctor is recommending we go back to see a specialist, and find out whether it could be related to a gastrointestinal problem. We have been through this before, when we were sent for a second opinion about A's reflux.

My gut feeling is that everything is fine, and that seeing a specialist will yield nothing more than the standard report of "let's wait and see." But the doctor's worry is that if A were to contract a stomach virus, she would lose enough weight to make things really serious.

I'm blogging about this because I'm concerned about how obsessive we've become over our children's weight. We don't live in a developing country; we have clean water, an abundance of food, and good quality medical care. We have such an abundance of food that in recent years, the government has launched a national campaign to curtail childhood obesity. 8-year-olds are being told by their family doctor that they need to lose weight.

Could our money and resources not be put to better use? How about a national campaign to foster a love of the outdoors? Get kids into canoes, on snowshoes and hiking our many beautiful parks. What about doing more to reduce the influence of food industry giants such as Kraft and Nestle? How about supporting lower income families in learning how to cook homemade meals that rival the taste and cost of a McDonald's Happy Meal? And most importantly, working to find the causes (and solutions) for the unprecedented number of children struggling with mental health issues (depression, anxiety, low self-esteem, bullying...these are all linked to our society's general mental health)

I know that some parents like growth charts. They like to brag about their child's height falling into the 95 percentile. Either that, or they're anxiously polling all the parents at playgroup about whether the 5th percentile in weight is a serious problem. It's a cause for a lot of comparison and worry, but can also be a source of comfort for those who like things that are clean-cut and measurable.

This is all fine and good for our babies, but serious issues can arise with an older child who is told that they're not measuring well compared to other children. In fact, this type of conversation can even lead to disordered eating behaviours and distorted body image. Eating disorders can develop, and then you've got a child falling off the other end of the charts.

I'm making a suggestion to you all. Let's put away the measuring tapes for a while. As parents, get rid of your scales. Try to avoid placing an emphasis on weight and body size in your family. What's more important is how you are all feeling. Do you feel strong and resilient, or weak and walked-all-over? Do you take time every day to dance in your bare feet? Do you stop to sniff the snow? (there are no roses out right now, so snow will have to do) Have you all experienced the rush of an early summer dip in the lake? Do you make big messes in your kitchen, and allow your children to concoct their own recipes?

Bravo to you if you do, and good luck to those who wish to start. Let me know how it goes!

(p.s. I promise to get back to some music-related posts soon. Life experiences require me to rant)

The things we're not allowed to say

While pregnant, I took the time to read about breastfeeding, convinced that this was the way I wanted to feed my child. It seemed much easier to me than fussing with bottles, it's definitely cheaper, and I wanted the bonding time with my little one. The saying "breast is best" has been drilled into our heads, and most new moms are willing to give it a try. In Canada, about 72% of babies are breastfed following birth. However, at 4-5 months of age, only 31% of babies are breastfed (LLLI, 2010). Why such a significant decline?

When discussing breastfeeding with doulas, midwives and other health professionals, the message I was given consistently was that "breastfeeding should not hurt." I was told that if it hurts, something is wrong with the latch, and I should seek professional help as soon as possible (by visiting one of the breastfeeding clinics around the city or hiring a lactation consultant). Sore, cracked and bleeding nipples are supposedly signs that something needs to be "fixed."

The first time A latched on, the midwife asked me how it felt - was it uncomfortable? Painful enough to make my toes curl? I thought for a moment, and said that although it wasn't painful, it certainly didn't feel pleasant. It was actually kind of irritating! Within several days, I had a big crack on one nipple, and I dreaded each feeding for the intense pain it caused. I told my husband we had to get help right away, and even though I was exhausted and still very sore, we went out to visit one of the local breastfeeding clinics. The woman there was helpful, and A latched pretty well. However, as soon as I got home, I couldn't get her to latch again, and called the midwife in a panic.

The following weeks, I dragged A (and my poor mother) to various breastfeeding clinics around the city. I hired a lactation consultant at $80/hr, and I read every book and website I could get my hands on. I even emailed breastfeeding guru Dr. Jack Newman, who gave me a very curt and unsatisfactory response to my message (as a side note, I'm sure Dr. Newman is wonderful and I know his books and website have been very helpful to many moms out there. Not trying to slam the big guy, but I was put off by the tone of his email.) The breastfeeding relationship was full of stress and anxiety, and I would wail away about the fact that I might not be able to breastfeed. My normal, unhormonal husband and mother tried to help, but they just couldn't get why I was so distraught. So what if I had to give her some bottles? What was the big deal?

My saving grace was the student midwife at my birth, who also happens to be a good friend. She counselled me a bit on the phone one night, and told me she knew I could do it. She said "give it until 6 weeks, and I promise you, you will make it." And you know what? She was right! At about 6 weeks, things got better, my crack healed, and I didn't have intense pain while feeding. I still felt like the latch wasn't quite right, but as long as she was healthy and growing, I kept going.

My daughter is now 16 months old, and I am a rarity amongst friends. I don't know too many people still breastfeeding at this age. Since the troubles I dealt with, I have eagerly polled every mother I know about her own experience with breastfeeding. I wanted to know if I was the only one who found things so difficult. And, (gasp), I wasn't! I can count on one hand the number of moms who have told me that breastfeeding was not painful. Almost everyone I have spoken with (including my mom and many women from her generation) has a story about sore or cracked nipples.

So what's the deal here people? Why are we telling women that sore and cracked nipples equals a problem, and that breastfeeding should not hurt? Here's the argument: if we start telling women that breastfeeding is supposed to hurt, a) no one will try it; and b) women who truly have problems won't bother seeking professional help, the problem will get worse, and they will give up on breastfeeding.

I agree with the second statement. I'm not trying to propose that women just suck it up and deal with the pain. Going to breastfeeding clinics and attempting to make a latch better will certainly help in the long run, and I think everyone should do this if you're feeling sore. Just the support of other moms and professionals is a wonderful way to reduce some of the stress (and maybe even have a laugh or two!) And hiring a lactation consultant to help with more serious problems is a necessity. But breastfeeing is a new relationship between you and your newborn. Neither of you really know what you're doing - we haven't grown up in a tribal culture where women breastfeed out in the open, all day long (and often practice communal breastfeeding!) So it is an adjustment period, and there will be a learning curve.

A part of that learning process will involve, for many women, sore and/or cracked nipples (I can hear the gasps and cries of outrage coming from the breastfeeding community...she's not supposed to say that!!) I've said it because I know it to be true. Who wouldn't be a little sore with someone sucking on your nipples for countelss hours a day? It's not like they've ever been stimulated so much! Imagine if someone repeatedly pulled and stroked on one part of your arm for 8 hours a day? Wouldn't you expect it to be a little tender after a while?

As a comparison, why do we prepare women so much for the pain of labour? Because we want them to realize that the intensity of contractions is a normal part of the process; we want to avoid the overuse of medicationas and interventions if we can. If women are well prepared for labour and birth, then they will feel confident in birthing naturally and will probably have better satisfaction with the whole experience. It's not like we tell women "oh, labour should not be painful...if it is, there's a problem."

If you believe that women aren't talking about how breatfeeding is painful, then you are quite blind to the conversations that go on amongst mothers. As I mentioned, it's a rarity in my circles that someone has breatfed without feeling uncomfortable at some point. Just yesterday at a baby shower I attended, one woman brought up her painful experience with breastfeeding, and soon the whole room was piping in. They warned the mom-to-be that things might be tough going for a few weeks, but that eventually it would all work out.

So let's start saying the things we're not supposed to say. Let's get truthful about breastfeeding, and perhaps women will be better prepared for the difficulties they might encounter. Heck, the least it could do is save a husband or other support person from having to deal with a new mother sobbing about her failure to produce a "good" latch.

I'm going to go hide out now and wear dark sunglasses and a wig for a while, just so I can avoid the angry mob of breastfeeding experts from tearing me apart.

Phobia Schmobia!

We all have fears - some of us are afraid of spiders, snakes or rodents. Others begin sweating several days before an airplane ride is scheduled. The thought of climbing a ladder can send some of us into a tizzy of anxious thoughts and a racing heart.

But what happens when a fear begins to take over our everyday lives? Soon we start looking for the source of anxiety in every situation we encounter. We begin avoiding certain events or places just because we are afraid of encountering that THING. A phobia is an irrational, intense fear, when our brains record an event as deadly or dangerous. In essence, we truly come to believe that the activity, thing or animal will harm us in some way, even if we realize that the reality of that happening is very slim.

For as long as I can remember, I have had a phobia of vomiting (supposedly this is called Emetophobia). As a child, we didn't label it a "phobia" but everyone knew that the second someone said they were feeling sick or needed to vomit, I was out the door faster than you could say "get the bucket." I never had the stomach flu as a kid, and I think that I willed myself to not get it.

My fear was manageable as a child, because it wasn't very often that I encountered someone who was vomiting. There were the several times my brother became sick, the one time a classmate vomited in our classroom, or the occasional poor kid that got carsick on the big yellow school bus. I worked through these events by running away when I could, or hiding under my coat, plugging my ears and humming.

No one understood where the fear had come from. Phobias generally develop when neutral, unconditioned, and conditioned stimuli trigger either conditioned or unconditioned responses. An example would be a person who was attacked by a dog (the unconditioned stimulus) would respond with an unconditioned response (intense fear, heart racing, short of breath, crying). When this happens, the unconditioned stimulus of them being attacked by the dog would become conditioned, and to this now conditioned stimulus, they would develop a conditioned response. If the occurrence had enough of an impact on this certain person then they would develop a fear of that dog, or in some cases, an irrational fear of all dogs. So basically, someone when I was very young vomited, and I responded with an unconditioned response that became conditioned over time. My Mom has suspected that it was possibly the time my Dad was quite ill (I was maybe 3), and I woke up to hear him vomiting in the bathroom. Perhaps the noises scared me enough to create an irrational fear of all people vomiting.

As I grew up, the phobia became quite embarassing, as I was never able to assist anyone who was sick, and I needed to avoid all situations where people might be vomiting. One example was hospitals - I always associated hospitals with vomiting. One of my best friends had a terrible allergic reaction while we were vacationing together in Florida, and we needed to take her to an emergency room. I couldn't even sit in the waiting room with her and comfort her - I had to wait outside! Public washrooms were another place I detested - the thought of someone vomiting in the stall next to me was terrifying.

Towards the end of high school, things seemed to get worse, to the point where I began worrying that I would get sick in public. The anxiety over this started when I finally got the stomach flu, and had to be sick at work one morning (I worked in a deli, so you can imagine how queasy I felt slicing up meat and cheese!!) Soon I worried that I would vomit in other public places as well - you can see why this is totally irrational, because what would cause me to believe I would vomit for no reason? I started having panic attacks, and began avoiding any place where this might occur (enclosed places were the worst - exam classrooms, buses and trains, times that I needed to perform during a concert)

Since that time, I have heard more about this type of phobia, and have even met some friends who share it. One woman I know is a professor at a respected university, and she has also struggled with this phobia for her entire life. We have shared funny stories about how much our lives have "shrunk" in size due to our need to avoid certain places and situations.

Over the years, I have managed to face my fear slowly, beginning in university when helping my fellow roomates who had had one too many at the bar. I also learned to support my family members on occasion (especially my hubby) when they were dealing with a stomach flu or recovering from surgery. When I became pregnant, I was one of the lucky ones who dealt with all-day sickness for almost 6 months. Vomiting became a regular ritual, and I adjusted to the anxiety over whether I might be sick in public - in the end I had to ask myself, who would really care if a poor pregnant woman had to vomit into a bag on the bus? The biggest question I asked myself, over and over, was "what is the worst thing that could happen?" The answer usually included things like: loss of control, embarassment, showing weakness, etc.

My biggest achievement of late was my first experience as a doula. You may or may not know, but many women vomit during labour. There are several reasons - the surge of hormones, the intensity of the contractions, and the squeezing of the uterus, which may trigger the stomach reflex to vomit. I was a little nervous about how I would handle it, but my fears were unfounded. There was a lot of vomiting, and I had no problem being right there through the whole thing.

I highlight this story and my experiences to show how long it takes to make changes. Imagine, I have had this phobia for almost 30 years, and it's only now that I can say that I may have overcome it. When we decide to change something in our lives (facing our fears, changing our behaviours) it's a long process of two steps forward, and one step back, many times over. Now, I'm not saying that all changes (like vowing to exercise more) will take 30 years to implement, but just that we need to learn to be patient with the ups and downs of life. There will be one day down the road, when we turn around and realize we've left our heavy baggage somewhere behind us...and there's no need to go back to pick it up. We have everything we need to keep going, right here and now.

This is Steven Page's "A New Shore":

As captain of this band of merry sailors I'm a black mark. I'm a failure, but before you watch me drown
I'm relinquishing command for something I don't understand. This man's about to turn his whole life upside down

I set a course for a new shore
It looked the same as the one before
And I forgot what I'd been sailing for
And why I thought this time would be different

I do most of this by feel and let go of the wheel. Constellations do the navigation on their own
Whilst yearning for adventure, dreading censure in absentia I would rather be at sea then be alone

I set a course for a new shore
It looked the same as the one before
And I forgot what I'd been sailing for
And why I thought this time would be different

Off the charts we drew
They said there wasn't anything but fairy tales
I showed them it was you, I told them you were everything a fairy tale could be

The boat sails by
The shore remains and so do I
I swear this time will be different

I settled here on a new shore
My lips were blue and my legs were sore
And I forgot if I was pushed or I jumped overboard
And after all this time, what's the difference?

Land-Ho!
Land- Ho! (Land-Ho!)

Music in Labour and Birth

We all know that music can play an important role in shaping our moods and even our ideas. Have you ever been driving along in your car, or going for a run with your Ipod, only to hear a song that suddenly makes you drive slower, or run faster? Where did that sense of relaxation or burst of energy come from?

Music can profoundly change or help your mental state. And it's not just the beat or the swell of the cello that works its magic. Think about a time when you were hurt by a loved one. You didn't sit and weep with a bucket of Chunky Monkey forever, did you? No way! You threw Alanis Morissette into the CD player and belted out You Oughta Know for the whole world to hear. Those lyrics bolstered your sense of self, and gave you confidence to move on.

In that same way, music can be beneficial in getting you through labour. The rocking, bopping stuff can be great in early labour when you are excited and chatty. You can sing and dance along in between contractions and enjoy the sensations of your body. Later on when contractions are overwhelming or when you're in your labour "zone," calming music can help you fall deep into relaxation and even allow you to doze.

It was around 2:30am during my labour when my doula put a relaxation CD into the player. It's a recording of loons calling, rushing waterfalls and orchestral melodies. At any other time, it might have driven me nuts! But I was very tired at that point, and had gotten into the bath. I put my head down onto the edge of the tub, and my husband and I sat and listened to the haunting music of the loons. Not too much later, I had a spontaneous urge to push, and realized I had made it! Dilation was complete and I was ready to get my baby out!

That moment in the bath is the clearest memory I have of my labour. Other women talk about hearing a song during labour and having flashbacks when hearing it again, long after their baby has been born. It can be a wonderful way to preserve the memories of such an important rite of passage.

So all you hope-to-be and soon-to-be Moms out there, start planning your birth tape now - what song will you want to hear?

And just for fun, grab that bucket of Chunky Monkey out of your freezer, and let's sing together:

I want you to know, that I'm happy for you
I wish nothing but the best for you both
An older version of me
Is she perverted like me
Would she go down on you in a theatre
Does she speak eloquently
And would she have your baby
I'm sure she'd make a really excellent mother

'cause the love that you gave that we made wasn't able
To make it enough for you to be open wide, no
And every time you speak her name
Does she know how you told me you'd hold me
Until you died, till you died
But you're still alive

And I'm here to remind you
Of the mess you left when you went away
It's not fair to deny me
Of the cross I bear that you gave to me
You, you, you oughta know

You seem very well, things look peaceful
I'm not quite as well, I thought you should know
Did you forget about me Mr. Duplicity
I hate to bug you in the middle of dinner
It was a slap in the face how quickly I was replaced
Are you thinking of me when you fuck her?

'cause the love that you gave that we made wasn't able
To make it enough for you to be open wide, no
And every time you speak her name
Does she know how you told me you'd hold me
Until you died, til you died
But you're still alive

And I'm here to remind you
Of the mess you left when you went away
It's not fair to deny me
Of the cross I bear that you gave to me
You, you, you oughta know

'cause the joke that you laid on the bed that was me
And I'm not gonna fade
As soon as you close your eyes and you know it
And every time I scratch my nails down someone else's back
I hope you feel it...well can you feel it

Well, I'm here to remind you
Of the mess you left when you went away
It's not fair to deny me
Of the cross I bear that you gave to me
You, you, you oughta know