March-ing on.

March brought with it plenty of happenings, Jack's baby blessing (and the resulting houseguests), a week with Grandma and Grandpa Egbert, Rachel wrapping up a season of basketball, Anna's 13th birthday celebration, Anna's participation in the junior high "benefit concert", spring break, Jack's first pamidronate treatment, and Easter, of course.  I'll try to catch up in chronological order.

Anna opted for a video scavenger hunt birthday party.  Two teams of 7th grade girls combed the community for embarrassing photo ops including leap-frogging in the grocery store, marriage proposals, singing the star-spangled banner in a very public place, playing duck-duck-goose with the lacrosse team looking on, etc.  The girls were good sports about it and so were most of the strangers they invited to participate, with a few exceptions (some people are just plain grouchy).  They came home to watch the videos, eat pizza and cake and topped it off with an hour or two of Just Dance on the Kinect.  I hope she was pleased because it is the last birthday party I am planning for her - she's on her own from here on out.

Rachel wrapped up her first basketball season and I must say she just may have found her sport.  Sure, she's an all-around athlete but she was seriously killing it on the court, making shots I never could have.  So fun to watch!

 The same weekend as Anna's birthday party, Jack was blessed in church.  We had lots of family come join us for the event, which made it all the more memorable.

Grandma and Grandpa Egbert decided to stay the week after the blessing and help out.  I got in some much needed sleep and essential errands while they tended to Jack's needs.  We also managed to fit in a little fun.

Grandma and Grandpa even were around for Anna's performance in her choir's benefit concert.  She had a solo in the song Oklahoma and rocked it.

Jack attack.

And just like that he's three and a half months old.  He's only slightly behind the curve when it comes to gross motor development, owing partly to the fact that he was in a cast for over a month.  I strictly enforce tummy time, much to his chagrin, but it seems to be strengthening his muscles, bare minimum.

Jack got his first pamidronate treatment in mid-March.  He will be receiving four-hour infusions for three days every two months until well into his second year.  It's super fun.  For his first and second infusions, he had to stay overnight at the hospital - an experience to which I was not looking forward, but I can't really complain since there are kids who spend months in hospitals.  Jack was a hit with all the doctors, nurses, medical students, and other personnel that came into check on him.  His first IV went over without a hitch and he was all smiles for the entire time we were there.

The third infusion didn't go quite as well.  It was on an outpatient basis and it took three pokes to find a vein that would work.  He was beside himself for the entire experience, understandably but again, was all smiles once the agony had subsided.  First treatment down.

Not proud. Grateful.

I spent a lot of time scouring the Internet for advice during those early days struggling to nurse Jack.  Consequently, I still occasionally get "suggested" articles regarding breastfeeding on my social media feeds.  Still.

The other day I clicked on one entitled "17 things formula-feeding moms wish breastfeeding moms knew".  Never mind the divisive wording of the title-we're simply moms and can do away with the labels, okay?  As I often do, I scrolled through the comments, knowing that the breastfeeding vs. formula-feeding debate would be great fodder for entertainment. One of the comments gave me pause.  This mom asked "formula-feeding moms" to stop being sensitive and just let breastfeeding moms be proud that they chose to give their child "the very best".  Now, I'm as pro-breastfeeding as they come, but proud?  Proud of what?  Proud that your milk glands produce sufficient milk?  Proud that your anatomy performs its intended functions?  Proud that your baby can suckle effectively?  Proud that you had enough support from family, work and possibly lactation consultants to work through any kinks in the early days and weeks?  Proud that your body doesn't require any medication that interferes with your ability to feed your child?

Please.  Don't be proud.  Be grateful.  You see, I'd be willing to bet that many of those so-called formula-feeding moms exerted Herculean efforts trying to breastfeed before deciding(kicking and screaming) that formula was the choice for this particular baby.  They should be proud, but they're not.  They're devastated.  I should know, I'm one of them.

I've birthed five children.  When my oldest was born and I nursed her during our hospital stay, all the nurses remarked, "Oh, you've got this.  You're a pro."  Please.  As if reading "The Womanly Art of Breastfeeding" instantly qualified me as an expert.  Anna could suck milk out of a basketball (and she practically did, given the condition of my boobs during engorgement).  She took a pacifier within a few hours after birth, didn't even "room in" with me the whole time, and was introduced to a bottle in her first week of life-all things the experts would tell you could sabotage your breastfeeding relationship.  They didn't.  Anna was born to nurse.

My second child?  Not too different.  Sure there was the soreness and the fatigue feeding around the clock for months, and the lack of flexibility when she wouldn't take a bottle...but she also nursed without incident.

Third child?  After coming home from the hospital, I spent an entire night pumping and spoon-feeding her because she became frustrated at the breast.  I was beside myself.  After a visit to a lactation consultant the next day, we discovered her suck was less effective, due to some tightness in her jaw and tongue. Thanks to some physical therapy exercises we were taught, I powered through and Rachel improved quickly.  She nursed longer than any of my kids.

Then came Eve.  She couldn't get it right.  I referred to the information we'd learned with Rachel to "train" her on breastfeeding.  She still couldn't get it.  She was spitting up blood from the gaping wounds on my nipples and still couldn't get enough milk to satisfy her for more than an hour.  The lactation consultants reassured me I was doing everything right and that she would catch on.  She didn't.  I starved her for three weeks before throwing in the towel and feeding her through a bottle.  Pumping was not a viable option for us, given the fact that I had four kids under six so she was given her last bottle of breastmilk before her one-month birthday. She thrived on formula.  While I cried.

That brings us to Jack.  I was well aware that breastfeeding was getting harder for this experienced mom, not easier.  I put numerous safeguards into place, ensuring that I could dedicate my whole self to the care and feeding of this, my last child.  It was not meant to be.  Three lactation consultants and countless hours of nursing, pumping and tube-feeding later, Jack simply could not get enough milk directly from my body.  Pumping was also not to be.  Plugged ducts every other day was a battle I was not willing to suffer just to feed my child my milk.  Not with five kids to care for.  At three months, Jack still gets a bottle of breastmilk a day but my boobs are officially closed for business.

For the record, I loathe bottle-feeding.  Why on earth would I prefer to mix up a bottle that baby may or may not finish when I could just pop him on the boob give him exactly what he needs with no waste or cleanup to speak of? 

To the mom who is "proud" to breastfeed her baby, I get it.  Nursing is arguably the most natural thing in the world and a deeply satisfying experience for many mothers, including me.  But to take pride in something that just happened to "work" for you just demonstrates a limited perspective, at best.  Those of us who tried through blood, sweat and tears(oh, the tears!) and succeeded or not aren't proud.  So don't be proud.  Be grateful.