Nothing says I love you like a new crockpot.

Tim and I have a knack for losing crockpots. Our first was missplaced somewhere between University Avenue and Wymount Terrace. I'm assuming that neither the friends and family we'd enlisted to help us move our stuff out of our first apartment nor the selfless neighbors who left their wives and families in the student housing complex to help us move in had sticky fingers. Nevertheless, somehow, somewhere, our crockpot made its way out of its moving box. I hope it found a good home.
Over a year ago, I loaned our crockpot to a friend whose own crockpot was still in Michigan with the rest of the stuff that hadn't made its way West when they found themselves relocating here. She returned it soon after by bringing it to church, where I left it in the kitchen, and then went home. I forgot to retrieve it the next week, and the next, and the next. I'm sure some shopper at Deseret Industries is now the proud owner of our second crockpot.
We've gotten by without it, though occasionally we'll get a bit wistful for our labor-saving small appliance. I've dreamt of Crockpot Lasagna more than once. And Perfect Potroast. And BBQ Beef Sandwiches. So when Tim surprised me with yet another crockpot on Valentine's Day, I was elated. What a romantic. Oh and the chocolates were a nice touch, honey. Especially now that they're pasted to my thighs.

Could it be?

My trip to the mailbox yesterday yielded an unexpected discovery. A daffodil, poking its way through the ground, making its way toward the blessed sun. I scour the other garden beds for any other sign of life. Ooh. A hyacinth, one of over 50 I planted in rows framing the beds in front of our house. I went and prepared myself a nice tall mug of hot cocoa and smiled, enjoying the flavor yet hoping it would be one of the last this year.

Off the record.

Sometimes I'll construct a post and then decide not to publish it. Either it's too personal, or might offend, or the writing is just plain horrid (though that doesn't stop me as often as it should). I've actually written several times in the past few weeks, just to capture our transition from 3 to 4 children on paper. And then I'll read over it all and realize that I've just been indulging in an enormous self-pity fest. I'm careful enough to avoid portraying myself as an inherently negative person (at least most of the time). And yet, its been good therapy. And maybe, someday I will read over these unpublished posts and thank the Lord that I survived it all.

That being said, I haven't recorded much about Eve, having been consumed by the torture of getting her to eat for her first few weeks. And even though newborns don't display a huge level of personality, I thought I'd record a few tidbits. First, she has a remarkably strong neck and legs. I say this hesitantly, because I don't exactly have an accurate perception of what is normal at this age. Her sisters were pretty much little blobs for what seemed like forever. Lily didn't even put weight on her legs for months when you'd hold her on your lap. Eve rolls easily from side to side and prefers standing, but I can still get in a good snuggle when I hold her (she gets that from her dad). The girls absolutely adore her and are constantly asking to hold and kiss her - her head is often covered with crumbs from dinnertime and she spends much of her day being awoken by such "hugs" and "kisses". She's beginning to grace us with a few smiles (while she's awake, that is, smiles while asleep are pretty common). Not enough for a photo op, mind you, but they are a welcome event to a mom whose been wondering if all the work is ever going to pay off. We love her and are so thrilled to add her to our group of "little women".

Midnight madness.

Middle of the night. Terrible migraine. Baby is a few minutes into her feeding. Toddler starts screaming for daddy, rudely awakened by the nighttime cough that has lingered for two weeks. Dad is dead to the world. The three of us hunker down in the guest room so as not to disturb the other half of our household still slumbering peacefully. Baby finishes her bottle. Toddler's coughing slows to a halt. Both are still wide awake. Is this a nightmare? The pounding in my head assures me that no, it is not.

Lily's birthday.

Yep. I'm two weeks late on this one. Lily turned four this month. Fortunately for her, we had planned her party weeks in advance (before baby, in fact) including making and freezing the cake so it was pretty much a matter of getting the invitations out on time. Of course, she chose a My Little Pony theme and invited 4 friends to join in the fun. One of Lily's greatest attributes is that she is easy to please. Have a few friends over, play a few games, eat a few treats and throw in a few balloons for good measure and Lily's on top of the world. Oh, and she politely informed us that next year she wants a "unicorn party". Too bad she only gets an official party every other year. Happy birthday Lily-bean.

Our drama queen.

I'm a week late. Before Eve was born, we found out that Anna's elementary school would be putting on the children's theatre production, Pinocchio. I asked Anna if she would like to audition and, having seen our neighbor participate in something similar last year, she replied with an enthusiastic, "Yes!"
Long story short, representatives from the Missoula Children's Theatre hosted auditions on Monday, began rehearsing that night and throughout the week, culminating in two performances that Saturday. It's quite a production.
Anna came home from the audition Monday announcing that she had been cast as a baby doll. I responded with the utmost excitement (of course, not knowing exactly what being a baby doll entailed) and gave her a hug of congratulations. At which point, her face crumpled and she burst into tears, expressing that she didn't want to be a baby doll. After asking her why, she said that her friend Lilly was a ballerina and that she wanted to be a ballerina too. Still crying, she told me she didn't want to be in Pinocchio.
I let her cry and showered her with sympathy and saved the lecture for dinnertime, when she relayed the same story to Tim. I shared my own performing experiences, where I was never cast as the part I had hoped for. She said, "But Mom, you got to be Rapunzel!" I responded, "Yes, but I really wanted to be Cinderella!" Then we talked about how even when you don't get the part you're pining for, you should still give it your best and you'll learn a lot and have lots of fun. Remarkably, she took it to heart and showed up for rehearsal on Wednesday... and Thursday, and Friday, and Saturday.
I've never seen Anna so excited about anything. She cast away her usual shyness and spoke her lines with poise and volume. I was very proud of my little girl's first official performance. I even bought her tulips. She provided the bright spot in a week otherwise filled with anguish. Here's a couple shots:

On a lighter note....

The kids picked out a space documentary at the Bookmobile last week. During one particular shot of the earth, Rachel pipes up and says, "Mommy, that's the earth. Jesus made it." She's barely two! What a champ.

Breast is best.

Get ready for the mother of all posts. Things have been rough here the past few weeks. And that's putting it mildly. I mistakenly thought myself fully capable of mothering four children under the age of 6. Sure, I expected a few bumps and a bit of chaos but I definitely didn't factor in any special circumstances.

Eve is a terrible eater. I suspected problems in the hospital and sought the help of a lactation consultant then. I persisted at home, knowing that I was doing everything right and that it would only be a matter of time before she caught on. I prayed my guts out, I clenched my teeth through the soreness that turned to bleeding, we gave her a blessing, we employed the techniques we had learned at physical therapy when Rachel was having nursing issues; you name it, we did it. Bad turned to worse, and worse turned to unbearable. I felt myself plunging into serious depression - watching my daughter take 2 hours to nurse without satisfaction, helping her fall asleep amidst her frustration, knowing that if she could get some rest we might be able to try again. An hour later, the nightmare would start over.

1. Wake the sleepy baby by taking her clothes off, changing her diaper, rubbing her hands and feet, etc. 2. Spend 20 minutes minimum getting her to latch on properly. 3. Grit my teeth as she would suck vigorously for, oh, about 3 sucks before throwing in the towel. 4. Stimulate her again to get her to keep eating. 5. And again. And again. 6. Switch sides after anywhere from 20 to 45 minutes of lazy eating. 7. Repeat steps 2 through 5. And all the while, we both cried. And cried. And cried. And all the while my three other kids were barely surviving.

This was my life for 2 1/2 weeks. Sure, there were a few moments when I thought she had captured the vision, when I felt we might be through the worst of it. But then the next feeding would prove me wrong. Last week, I could see that Eve wasn't gaining any weight, her yellowish color lacked improvement, and her sleepy, dissatisfied disposition showed no signs of abating. All this work so I could starve my daughter? I considered switching to formula. Instead I ended up back at lactation, where I rented a pump so that I could at least get something substantial into her system in less than 2 hours. She guzzled the bottle. It took her 10 minutes to reach a level of satisfaction that hours had not produced before.

We had a new plan: pump and feed Eve until she reached an age where she was ready to learn to nurse. I was skeptical, but at least I could rebuild my milk supply and get more than 4 hours of sleep at night. Turns out, pumping is a full-time job. I spent 35 hours this past week just pumping and storing the milk, then rinsing the necessary equipment. That doesn't even count the time it took to actually feed her. It was an improvement, but still unbelievably time-consuming. Add to that the nagging fear I had that giving her an artificial nipple had ruined her chances at ever learning to breastfeed. I kept trying to teach her the ways of breastfeeding, without much result and finally decided that I could not go on this way for any length of time.

I felt paralyzed. At age 3 weeks my kids can usually nurse while I'm lying down but Eve could not even complete a feeding (nor ever had). The thought of accomplishing even the smallest task became too overwhelming to consider. I lost my appetite, my ability to play with my children, the desire to wake up and face the day with resolve. I made a decision. I had to do what was best for my family. I decided to switch to formula. Yes. My name is Susie and I formula-feed my child. I say that in true AA fashion.

It's not that I judge people who formula-feed their babies. In fact, some of the greatest women I know do so. But there's nothing defunct with my ability to produce milk to necessitate doing so. And I've nursed my three other daughters for a year each, providing some of the most rewarding experiences of motherhood. Plus, you can't deny the literature - breast is best in so many, many ways.

So now I'm grieving. I feel as if something inside me has died. I'm confident that I made the right decision for our family and yet I'm left to question where I might have gone wrong. What more could I have done to teach my daughter? Would she have learned if I had just endured a bit longer? I lack the answers to these questions.

I'm also angry. Everything I do from the fact that I avoid as much medical intervention as possible during pregnancy and labor, to rooming in with my newborn, to waking her constantly after birth to ensure an adequate milk supply is done with the utmost concern for ensuring a healthy breastfeeding relationship. Why then, was it so darn hard? It seems unfair.

I'm sad. I feel guilty that I can't provide the same for Eve as I did for my other children. I look at her when she's eating and am glad that she's finally getting some nutrition. And that's where the joy ends. I want to be the provider of her sustenance. I see other mothers with their babies and envy their ability to nurse, I long for the experience that I feel was robbed from me.

Lastly, I feel ungrateful. With any number of things that could go wrong, I have a baby born with ten fingers, ten toes, and everything that is required for a healthy existence (except, maybe a survival instinct). So what's the problem with me? I'm hormonal and I think too much, that's the problem.

Perhaps Eve would have eventually gotten the hang of it. After the 3 weeks I endured I consider it a slim possibility, but it could have happened. But at what cost? In my estimation, the cost was too great. So I made a decision. A decision that, while trivial to some, was emotionally-wrenching for me. And I guess that's why it was my trial. We neither get to choose the challenges that beset us, nor do we always understand their purpose. I hope that the Lord will enlighten me one of these days. For now, I just keep plugging along. And try to hold back the tears when someone asks me about it.