The one about my boobs

This is a disjointed blabbering that lacks organization. A better blogger would edit it to make more sense. I could do that but I think the way that it bounces around a bit suits how my head and heart are on this issue. Forgive me.

My sister wrote a bit about it here. About a month and a half ago, I wrote a bit about it here. Otherwise I have been fairly silent on the issue. But the truth is, there's rarely a moment when I'm not thinking about my ta-tas and their seeming inability to feed my child.

And before I dive too deeply into my latest self-pity party, I need to acknowledge that I have had a ton of support and encouragement from a great many people trying to help me figure this out. I truly appreciate the love of all of my People who have worked with me to figure this business out. No one has said anything to make me feel guilty or incompetent. They know I've tried. I know I've tried. But when you are me, even when you know you are doing your best and doing "best practices" for your kid, you still manage to blame yourself.

Just as I had an idea of the kind of pregnant woman I would be (i.e. the RUNNING kind), I have an idea of the kind of mama to an infant I am (i.e. the exclusively BREASTFEEDING kind). While I don't plan to pose for the cover of Time Magazine with my breast-icles in my kid's mouth anytime soon (obviously I'm holding out for Field & Stream) I have always been fairly Old School in that way. My feeling is that Moms who can ought to keep their baby's belly full, brain developing and body growing in that most magical, lactational, fantastical way.

And dammit, aren't I a Mom who CAN!?

Much like the idea of not running right through my pregnancy was almost too much to bear, not being able to nourish my child as nature intended is making me a little bonkers. I'm healthy. I'm accommodating to his belly aches. (Ask me about the two weeks when I couldn't eat wheat, dairy, soy, chocolate, corn, broccoli, cauliflower, onions, peanuts, caffeine, citrus, green peppers.... I called it the "Rice Chex and Fruit Diet"). And (mostly) I'm well-intended!

So how the hell do my girls have the nerve to produce at such a meager level? 

My guess is that a good chunk of the problem came from my well-intentioned change of diet. In aiming to solve one problem (G's terrible gas pains) I caused another (inadequate caloric intake with the Rice Chex & Fruit Diet). For the record, this diet DID eliminate the gas issue... but obviously the whole losing-weight-in-the-second-month-of-life thing is a BIG problem.

Currently I am taking Fenugreek (an herbal supplement meant to enhance lactation), drinking Mother's Milk tea and (as advised by my doctor) enjoying a beer every afternoon. I am nursing him as frequently as humanly possible - at the first sign of hunger. In the night I am co-sleeping with him so he can "slurp" at will. I am attempting to take in "dense" calories as my midwife suggested. (Still off of dairy because I am SURE that makes his tummy cramp up horribly but otherwise I've ditched the insane diet).

And yet.

He's STILL so very hungry. He STILL takes 2 - 4 ounces after every nursing session. And sometimes when he's hungry, he just screams at my boob instead of nursing. He screams and screams until I finally give him a couple of ounces of formula.... after which he will nurse some.... after which he wants more formula.

Oh, and I'm not talking about the ridiculously priced formula. I'm talking about the SUPREMELY ridiculously priced formula. I've taken to calling it his Dom Perignon. I tried, in fact, to work in a slightly-less-pricey-but-still-intended-to-aid-colicky-babies variety. No good. He cramped up terribly and screamed like crazy.

We're hanging in with the Dom, so it seems.

Formula stinks (literally). And when I'm out in public and I have to make a bottle, I feel like I need to explain all my efforts at nursing to any strangers who might be witnessing the transgression.

Before you hit the "comment" button and scold me for griping about what is, ultimately, a very First World Problem, yes, I DO know how lucky I am. Lucky to have three healthy and happy children, a supportive and loving husband, and the means care for them all. I know that in this sense I am exceptionally blessed. I DO count my blessings. I DO appreciate the gift that Gabriel is to my life and to the world around him.

But at my core I know I was meant to be a nursing mama. And I know I was meant to be good at it.

Someone apparently forgot to tell my mammaries.

Maybe my favorite picture of him so far.

According to Heidi....

Phoebe has allowed me, her "biggest" and slightly older sister, to guest blog.  Very exciting stuff... for me, anyway.

Heidi with 2 of her 3 after tonight's 5K... which I skipped in order to save Gabriel from the heat.

Phoebe and her boys have been with us this week as Tommy and Elliott attend a local theater camp with my daughter Maddy.  It has been INCREDIBLE!  We have been busy.  So busy, in fact, that we literally needed to write down a list of our commitments for each day.  (I am a sucker for a good list and was thrilled when Phoebe suggested the list to ME.)  At certain times we have managed to be in three places at once.  (We are good!)

All of my kids are older than all of her kids so this has been a great blending of ages.  Mine have enjoyed catering to the younger set and hers have been exposed to some chemicals and food groups that may require a few weeks of detox when they return to NH.  We've introduced Rita's Water Ice and had the requisite brownies and ice cream...several times.  In turn we have three brand new memberships to Club Penguin and are reluctant to admit we like NinjaGo.

We have commiserated over our challenging parental moments and have tested two bottles of Skinny Girl Pina Coladas.  (We'd give it an 8.  It had a good beat and you could dance to it.)  Most of all, I have marveled at Phoebe's sense of calm.  She clearly keeps her emotions in check with her kids and this has rubbed off on me as I have yelled at my kids a lot less this week.  (Granted, we all know our kids behave a lot better when other kids are in the mix.)    "Patience is a virtue" and Phoebe is virtuous.

But let's get to the heart of the matter:  Phoebe's boobs.  Phoebe has done everything humanly possible to increase her milk production.  She has gone to lengths most of you reading this would never dream.  (Giving up milk chocolate?!?  It's practically un-American!)  She sees this decreased production as a direct reflection on her commitment to Gabriel.  As a biologist, I look at this physiologically.  You know, cascading hormones and such.  If I were a diabetic, Phoebe would be sure I took insulin.  If I were a hemophiliac (OK, less likely being an X-linked trait, but work with me), Phoebe would be the first to inject my clotting factor.  If I had a heart attack, she'd shove that baby aspirin under my tongue in a flash!  Well, that's what I hope I am encouraging in return for her this week.  It's OK to supplement with formula if your body chemically isn't supporting an adequate volume of milk. 

Phoebe has amazed me with her dedication to her restricted diet, nursing schedule, and prescribed supplements.  She has also gracefully accepted my constant offer to give Gabriel a bottle of formula so I could have plenty of special "Aunt Heidi time".   He is an amazing little man - as are Tommy and Elliott!  They are loved.  They are cherished.  They have a very humble mother.

So, Tommy, Elliott, and Gabriel, in the words of Monica on Friends:

"I will always have gum!"

So come again!

XOXO,
Aunt Heidi

Griswold's Snoozetime and Car Ride Fun (Part 1)

I would start this post with a long list of reasons/laments about why I haven't posted in so long but it seems that every post I do starts that way.... Much to report but I'll start thusly:

There's nothing better than a good night's sleep preceding a flawless trip home from vacation. Well, that's what they tell me anyway. Not sure I'd know for sure. The last couple of days might explain why.

The boys and I spent a long weekend on Cape Cod visiting my in laws. For the boys there were trips to the beach and toy store, miniature golfing and lunch expeditions, and lots of relaxing in the glow of adoring grandparents. (Also, a superior cable subscription that includes Cartoon Network and therefore episodes of Ninjago. Their level of excitement about this fact was off the charts and you should by all means judge me as a parent for how far down the rabbit hole we've gone with this thing!) For me the biggest win were the extra hands to care for Gabriel when I wanted to run - cue the angel choir. In addition to their G.G. and Poppa, the boys also got to get (re)acquainted with some Great Aunts and Uncles and an afternoon/evening of fun with their Giessler cousins who flew in from Orlando on Monday afternoon.

Side note: it's funny to listen to and talk to my kids about their struggles between saying "Ant" and "Aunt". They are about 50/50 in how it comes out of their mouths and Tommy will sometimes correct himself when he says it the New England way, reminding me, "We're from New York, right Mom? So we say ANT." (He is born and raised in New Hampshire of course, but he figures he has citizenship to the Empire State and all the Upstate pronunciations through me, I guess!)

Because his brother and nephews were in town, Scott even took his precious 24 hours of free time at camp this week and made the 4-hour drive to his parents'. Such a good boy!

All in all, it was a delightful few days and I know my father-in-law will send me photos to post soon. But now for the snoozetime fun....

The three bedroom house, though sizeable, was pretty crowded with the 10 of us Monday night. G.G. and Poppa decided to try the 4 big boys (ages 4, 6, 6, and 8) on air mattresses in the livingroom. They were not sure how it was going to go for the Florida cousins since they have their own rooms at home and it might be hard for them to settle down in a crowd. I assured them that our boys would be fine since they are used to sharing space and at my parents' place they sleep in a room with dozens of cousins.

I was right. And so were G.G. and Poppa. Kinda.

They were all very tired by bedtime and, in fact, Elliott fell asleep before the others had even said good night. Tommy couldn't sleep though. He ran into this problem because, although he's used to sleeping with other people in the room, he is not used to a white noise machine. The cousins have always slept with one so their dad brought it from Florida. It's very "womb-y" (thinking prenatal heart beat) and is just a few thousand decibles louder than jumbo jet landing. Additionally, the cousins had all the typical "urgent" needs that kept them from being able to settle down for sleep. (

Tommy was impressively silent on these matters but I knew he was not going to remain cool about it for too long. After a while, I quietly told him to go up in my bed to sleep. Otherwise I wasn't sure how frustrated he would get and how that frustration might manifest itself.

SO smart. SUCH a good solution. (SOOOOO sarcastic).

Gabriel was already asleep in the pack 'n play and Tommy went to sleep quickly on the bed. Quickly and, I might add, diagonally. So when we went up to sleep, Scott had to move him to a verticle situation, which of course woke him up. No problem. He went right back to sleep... diagonally. The other thing about Tommy in his sleep is if his foot hits something - or someone - he appears to be pre-programmed to kick it. Hard. Repeatedly.


This has already been around FB and some blogs, but it's just too much fun!

Now, I only know this because it was reported to me by Scott. I was scrunched on the far corner of the bed with Gabriel, since he joined us when he needed to be nursed.

Meanwhile, Scott shut the door to the bedroom to cut down on the jumbo jet noise. And I opened the door in order to hear Elliott who would, I thought, be panicked if he woke up without Tommy on the air mattress with him.

Also meanwhile, I shut off the window fan so that I could hear Elliott over the jumbo jet.... And Scott turned the fan back on so that he didn't melt into a puddle (an unfortunate addition to already being blugeoned by Tom's feet.) I think we went back and forth on the window fan about 4 times.

Sadly, at 2:20 or so, I found I was right to worry about E. From downstairs I heard a heartbreaking sobbing. It was, of course, Elliott. He does the same thing at home if he wakes up and can't find Tommy.

(At home Tommy is almost always tucked into the far corner of his top bunk and Elliott simply can't see him... but it's always the same result. Instead of coming to find us and telling us that he can't find Tommy, he just lies back in his bed crying his eyes out. It is SOOOO sad! No amount of reassuring him that he is welcome to come find us if he's scared in the night has convinced him to venture out of that bed. Maybe the long walk to our room is more horrifying than the idea that his brother has disappeared?)

I dashed downstairs and scooped Elliott up (too late, it seemed, since the 4-year-old cousin raised his adorable bed head and protested to me, "He waked me up.") and brought him to our room. For about 2 minutes there were 5 Giesslers in the bed. I knew after 15 seconds this situation was not going to work but I needed the other 1:45 to configure a plan.

I found two small comforters in the linen closet and made a nest on the floor for Elliott, Gabe and I. My theory was that these comforters were so soft and fluffy it would be like having a mattress.

Haa haa haa hardy har!

At some point on nights like this you make an important transition. At first, of course, you are praying mightily to fall asleep. "Please, God, just let me sleep. Just an hour or two so I can drive home tomorrow and not be a zombie." Then, after rolling over 10 or 12 MILLION times in an attempt to find a side-lying position in which you can both nurse the baby AND not feel like your hip bones are going to shatter on the "soft, luxurious" comforter, you change your plea: "Please, God, just make it morning so this hell will end. I just want sun light and the chance to try again tomorrow night."

I know I slept, though, because at one point I woke up from a dream. A very vivid dream. Nay, a very vivid nightmare. And in this nightmare it was 3AM. And I was staying in my in-law's spare bedroom. On the deceptively hard floor. With Gabe and Elliott. And Tommy and Scott were on the bed. And my brother-in-law and his kids were there. And in the dream all I wanted to do was sleep. And my hips were killing me. And then my brother-in-law came to the bedroom door with his sons and said his boys wanted to sleep with their cousins. So they were going to sleep in our room, too.

It took me awhile after waking up to realize that the final detail of the dream didn't actually happen.

Without my glasses I had no idea what time it was, but a good chunk of time after I began making bargains with God about all the amazing things I would accomplish in this life if He would just bring on the morning, I could see that the dawn was breaking. I decided that I could lie there for another hour not sleeping and then get up and finish the packing up process.... or I could get up and go running.

It was 5:11 AM.

I went running.
I went running.

Skinny Man Update

Thanks for your kind words and commiseration after yesterday's post. I know that every parent has moments (or months!?) that they look back upon and wonder, "what the hell was I thinking!?" And even looking back on it, I honestly don't feel like my "mistake" was something to be embarrasses about. The only thing I could (and would) have done differently was get him on a scale sooner as opposed to later.

One of the things about having more than one kid in your household is that you can't be hyper vigilant (hyper paranoid?) about any one of them. While this may lead to some things slipping through the cracks for a while, it also makes the whole "the world doesn't revolve around you" lesson very teachable early on.

(Yes, OF COURSE many parents of only children successfully teach that lesson. I just don't know that I would be able to do it if we had just one offspring.)

I don't think it comes in my size anyway...

Wow. That sounds pretty harsh when you're talking about a 2-month-old, doesn't it? But, there it is. From the mouth (keyboard) of the (mostly) well-adjusted 6th of 8 children!

So, yesterday Mr. Skinny ate just about every hour of the day. WOW! He took a total of about 8 ounces of formula (sigh...) and nursed even more than he would have in previous days. I will certainly admit that I could be seeing what I wish to see, but he seems to be much more chill with this full, full belly. He also seems to be tolerating the formula well and even had an "easy" pooped this morning - a notable occasion, for sure!

Another vote against me claiming Neglectful Momma of the Year Award came when the lactation consultant visited.  She weighed him, I nursed him, and she weighed him again: he had gained 1 oz after the feeding.... confirmation that he's definitely getting nourishment. (Maybe it's just skim milk?) She also noted that his latch was good and (as the doctor said on Tuesday) he seemed right on target developmentally.

She also reaffirmed that the supplementing may not have to be a permanent situation. If we can get his weight up in the next month or so, I can cool it. I have a Varsity breast pump being shipped so when that gets here I will spend as much time as possible (with a good Netflix cue set up, hopefully) getting a good supply built up.

We are on the road next week (to my Mom's for the annual Camp Gungah festivities with (almost) all of the 20 cousins... WEEE!) which brings benefits and challenges: lots of helpful hands (big & small) to hold and love him, but also, nutty schedules and awkward feeding situations. (It's not nearly as easy to get a good latch and a long nursing session when we are out and about as when we are home on the couch.) Knock wood that between now and then we have a chunkier baby to share with his Fan Club.

Back in the Bib

Gabriel was officially 7 weeks old yesterday and I had my first post-baby race. It was The Over the River and Through the Woods 5K in Concord. The course was really great because it offered a nice mix of road running and trail running. The only hills were on the roads (mostly going up and over a bridge which crossed a major highway... oh, and a river, as the race name would suggest). In a couple of spots the trail (which was in the woods, natch) narrowed to a single lane which was a great time to chill and maintain pace without feeling obligated to pass anyone. (Since I was not in a place to gut out an incredible time, I liked this aspect as it reigned me in a bit). 

The temperature was perfect: mid-50s. Unfortunately, this glorious temp was paired with rain. And more rain. And rain-rain-rainity-rain. (In retrospect, we actually lucked out because later in the day the rain got much heavier and the winds became vicious.) Again, the rain suited me as it seemed to offer another reason to take it easy on myself.



All the cool kids expose themselves a bit before a race.
Scott's camera phone offer the perfect amount of obscurity a la my ta-tas!

Scott and the boys drove me down. I had my first-ever "last minute nursing session before a race" with Gabriel. (Never raced while nursing the older two boys). Because it was pouring, we huddled in the back of the minivan. I had to make the tough decision of whether to wake him up from a sound sleep to feed him or let him sleep and risk his freaking out from hunger if he woke up before I was done. His naps are not exactly easy to track right now so it could have gone either way. I decided to err on the side of a full belly. Glad I did: he slept for the entire race!


3-M: Me, Meg, and Mandy. Before the race.

Before the race I met up with fellow racers Megan, Mandy & John. I also saw another FB friend, Andrea, who was running. We were lucky to have a mini-cheering (and photography) section in Karen & her little guy, Andrik, as well as Amy, of Wolfe 101 fame. So nice to have friendly faces at the start and finish!

I gave myself some vague goals for the race:

A) Finish feeling good
B) Finish in under 30:00
C) Finish in under 27:27 (my 5K time last October when I was 14 weeks pregnant)

Happily, I can report that I met each of these goals!

Chip time: 26:41
Overall: 131/274
Age group place: 8/33    
Pace: 8:36

Trust me: I'm smiling!

The fact that my pace was under 9:00 tickles me pink. Half marathon training officially begins tomorrow and this pace gives me a great place to start. (Trying not to focus on the fact that my last half marathon I ran at a pace of 7:57 or something obnoxious like that.... we won't be shooting for that this time around!)

Me, John, Mandy & Megan (who had ANOTHER PR yesterday!) There's a FB discussion going - started by my sister - about the size of my hooters in this photo. I was sort of shocked at them, too.

Evil Doers Cured!

Darling, 6-week-old Gabriel, finally pooped last night. He had gone 10 days (TEN!) without a movement and it was getting unnerving, to say the least. He was happy and normal most of the time but about 10 minutes after eating he would have horrible spasms in his belly. His screams are fairly remarkable and the only solution to the problem is stopping the world around him, holding him facing out with pressure on his belly, and waiting patiently for the noxious fumes to emit from his bowels. His gas was getting progressively more difficult to pass and progressively stinkier.

I'm not a completely horrible parent. I did contact his pediatrician's office a few times. They said I was welcome to come in and have him checked but being child number 3, I just KNEW he would get it out and we would figure it out. His belly was not swollen, he was still eating and peeing and sleeping okay at night.... (Plus, in my life arranging to get him to a doctor's appointment takes an Act of Congress, or at the very least becomes a 3-ring circus.) I made an appointment for Tuesday afternoon in case he hadn't gone by then but thankfully I can cancel that.

I also took him to my chiropractor who massaged his belly and did some manipulating of his sacrum. He did NOT love being in the office and getting himself all checked out, but there was a dramatic drop in his fussiness after his first visit. I definitely think her expert hands found the right spots to ease at least some of the pain.

Finally on Friday night when I was changing his diaper I noticed that there was some swelling around his rectum. ("Rectum? Damn near killed 'um!") That was when I finally decided to give him a bottle of water with some fruit juice in it. I was reluctant to do that because he's SUCH a baby right now and it seems crazy to offer him anything except breast milk. He had 2 oz of water mixed with 1 oz of grape juice Friday night. He had the same mixture Saturday morning. And finally (after I got to the grocery store) on Saturday evening he had 2 oz of prune juice mixed with 2 oz of water.

It was during the prune juice bottle that his bowels released. WOOO HOOOO! It actually wasn't nearly as much as you would think. And I was prepared to see very dry, rock hard nuggets but it was very loose. Sorry. Very gross. But it's weird that it was that "easy" version of poo and yet he held on to it for so long. Isn't that weird?? He had another 3 dirty diapers over night, none of which were remarkable in anyway.

So, what the hell does this have to do with curing evil doers? I have a new theory:

Mean people are constipated.

Seeing what not going for so long did to my innocent little baby, I've concluded that most of the evil that occurs in the world is caused by a lack of bowel movements. Think about how you feel when you can't go. It's horrible, right? So, imagine that for 10 days! I'm betting with a little research and creativity I could create a mathematical formula based on this "science". Perhaps I'll call it "Gabriel's Poop to Evil Scale".

Some examples:

When he went on his series of horrible antisemitic rants, Mel Gibson must have gone 6 or 8 days without pooping.

Attila the Hun must have gone at least 2 weeks during his raids.

Hitler did not poop after the age of 14 or 15.

To think, all he needed was a little Exlax.

Please help further this important research. Here's how!

Think of somebody who annoys the crap (HA!) out of you or that you find unpleasant most of the time. Go ask them the last time they pooped. My guess is they will say at least 3 days. Report back to me with the number of days and a short description of the evil or annoying acts committed by your subject. I'm pretty sure I'm on to something here... I smell a dissertation!

(Smell. HA!)

Ready. Or not.

This time I think I'm really ready. Really really ready.

Ready, of course, to start running again. My body has recovered from giving birth. My brain is DEFINITELY ready for the endorphins. And the calendar is clicking away as opportunities for races slip through my fingers.

So, way back before Gabriel was "Totally On Purpose" I liked to run at scary o'clock in the morning. This worked well for me because even though that initial groan of getting out of bed was painful, I started these days with a huge accomplishment checked off and it put me in a great frame of mind for the rest of the day. In addition, it was pretty much my only option for getting a run in: Scott leaves for work at 6:45 each morning and for much of the school year, he gets home after dark. In addition to needing the kid coverage he provides, I am also just way too pooped by late afternoon to think about working out.

I am looking to get back in that saddle this week. On Monday night I even thought (foolishly, come to find out!) that I would manage to get in a 30 minute walk/run Tuesday morning. In theory, I could feed the baby around 5AM, get out of bed at 5:30, get out the door by 5:40 or 5:45, and be back by 6:15 or 6:20....

You'll be shocked (SHOCKED, I say!) to learn that Gabriel did not follow my prescribed schedule. He was up at 10PM, 12AM, 2AM and 4AM to eat... not a surprise and not too much of a problem, really, as I just plug him in and keep snoozing. But that 4AM feeding was my workout's doom. He finished up around 4:30. Now, I have been known to get up at 4:30 (or before) to run, but this morning it was just not happening. It was still dark out and I could hear the rain coming down. My body was achy from the awkward angle at which I had nursed the baby through out the night. I told myself, "It's okay, I'll just get up in an hour and get out the door."

4AM? Must be time for a drink!

Ninety minutes later I am sound asleep when I Elliott appears beside my bed. "Mommy, I have a tick on my privates."

This is separate-blog-worthy, but I'll sum up here:

Yup. He did. It was completely embedded in there, too. Totally upsetting and gross and unnerving. For me. Elliott was highly amused by the whole thing. Even as I was tweezing and pulling and soaking the little bugger in a liquid soap sopped cotton ball (you've all gotten that email too, I assume), he was unflappable. Apparently he is not terribly sensitive in those parts! Spoke to the doctor's office later in the day and they said to have him soak in the tub, put some antibiotic ointment on it, and watch it. Okey doke!

So. No run today. I'd like to blame the testes-loving tick. I'd like to blame an over-suckling 3-week-old. I'd like to blame the rain and the dark. But I'm getting pretty tired of blaming other things for my butt not getting out there.

This is my new reality and it's time to work in the workout.

POST SCRIPT:
WEDNESDAY, 6AM...
Gabriel up at 1:15 and 4:15. I got out of bed to feed him in the living room at 4:15. Got out the door for my run at 5:20! Not quite 3 miles. Not quite a happy right knee. But... DID IT! "If you blog it, it will get done." AMEN!

Big Talker

Warning: this post talks about boobs, and not in a sexy way. Read at your own risk.

Two days ago I posted about how happy I was to have gone for a (albeit SLOW) run. I was sure that this easy re-entry into fitness would result in yesterday being a day full of energy and enthusiasm for more exercise. My thinking was I would take a walk and maybe try to do some easy strength training. (My quads - the easiest things for me to see - are so sad and limp you'd think I had never worked out a day in my life!)

The joke was on me. Yesterday I woke up and could not deny it: I was SICK. In fact, for the last couple of days I had struggled in the early mornings and late evenings. I felt like I had a fever but when I took  my temperature, it said I was 98.4. So, I blamed it on my mental state and got myself revved up for the day. But yesterday I figured out that I was using the themometer wrong! The fist "beep" is a review of the last time you took a temperature; you have to click it AGAIN to learn what your new temp is. DUH!

So, when I figured that out I learned I had a temp of 100.9. That's not horrible, but of course postpartum Mamas have to be careful about infections so it was enough for me to contact my doctor. I wasn't able to see Mary (my midwife/primary care) but I got in to see the other nurse. He was very pleasant and kind and asked the right questions. He arranged a blood draw and hearing my symptoms (fever, exhaustion, body aches) decided I probably didn't have mastitis (infection in the breast) or any infections in my lower lady parts.

Here's what's weird: he didn't look at my boobs. He asked me if they were tender (DUH! I've got a seven pound gila monster gnawing on them 10 times a day! Yes, they are tender!) or hot or had any hard or hot spots. I said, "Ummmm, they ache but I don't think there are any spots in particular that are a problem." His conclusion was that I didn't have mastitis because I would have noticed those things. And he left it at that. I know that if I saw Mary she would have said "whip 'em out, I want to see" and then we would have been sure. I don't know if he didn't want to look because he's a dude or if he truly didn't feel like it was necessary. And I don't know if I should have said, "Hey, fella, don't you want to check out the girls for yourself? It would make me feel better."

So, Gabriel and I limped home (had to bring him in case he got hungry, of course, and the darling boy slept the WHOLE time, thank GOD!) with the nurse promising he would call and check the next morning. By the time I got in the driveway. I was freezing cold, shaking like a 70's rocker due for a drug test, and incapable of forming coherent thoughts. I went to bed with about 600 layers of blankets over me. Again, Gabriel was a champion: he nursed for awhile and then slept and slept and slept so I got a great nap in.

Later in the afternoon the lactation consultant called and after I said, "Fine, how are you?" I interrupted myself and said, "Wait. No. I'm not fine. Here's what's going on..." When I explained my symptoms she said she would be really surprised if I DIDN'T have mastitis. She said I should take another close look at my breasts because the flu-like symptoms I had were almost always mastitis when suffered by nursing moms. I took another closer look and decided that maybe, maybe I had a spot that was inflamed. This spot is at an angle that is not visible to me so it's not a huge surprise that I didn't notice it before.

This morning my fever has broken and I am a sweaty mess. I feel much better (thank God, as Scott is out of town until Saturday evening!) but I still feel the sore part on my boob. I don't know what to expect from the phone call from the nurse today. I know that I NEED antibiotics to kick this mastitis. I wonder if he will insist that I come back into the office in order to get it? This would require loading up ALLLL the boys which will surely mean unpleasantness....

Anyway, I am happy to be feeling better. I am annoyed that the illness followed up a day of exercise (I truly don't think there's a correlation, but I can't deny that there might be). And I am not nearly as horrified this morning as I was yesterday at the prospect of being a single mom for the next 3 days.

But most importantly, would YOU have told the nurse you wanted him to look at your boobs?? I am really stuck on this point, feeling like I didn't advocate for myself. Awkward, right?