Counting Cats

Meow!

When Sean and I talk about the values we want to impart in our children, a couple of things always come up, one being respect for yourself and others,  and the other being the importance of hard work and perseverance in the face of difficulty and obstacles.  Working in the field of education, I have seen more than a couple of students who, after years of having things come easy for them, come to a subject or period of time that is difficult or that they don't understand right away and breakdown.  Oftentimes those students, because they never learned how to trudge through, give up or mistakenly believe they are no longer smart because they need help.  This is why I sincerely hope that things in school and in life in general don't universally come easy for our kids.  It sounds counterintuitive but I  hope they meet with struggle early on and if genetics have anything to say about (mine at least) they will.  

I have never had an intelligence test but I'm guessing if I did, either currently or in the past, it would probably be a pretty average score.  I do not consider myself highly intelligent.  And although it would be nice to have a photographic memory or be able to pick up any new concept or language easily, I have learned that there are more important strengths and characteristics to have.  

I struggled across the board in elementary school.  Not only was every academic subject a puzzle to me (and I have never been into puzzles) but making friends and reaching out to new people brought me great anxiety as well.  At home I was a vivacious and creative kiddo but coming out of my shell at school felt scary and unsettling.  If you didn't know me then (and most of you didn't), this information probably surprises you.  In the past several years that I have been a school counselor, I have told many of my students about my early struggles.  Kids are almost always surprised to hear that school was difficult for me academically and are even more shocked to hear that I was very shy and insecure.  After all, I have no problem wearing pajamas to school, making up silly songs and belting them out to a large audience, and leading silly classroom role plays.

The highlights of my early school years go something like this.  I remember distinctly the color of my kindergarten reading folder.  The folder was red, a color that didn't take me long to figure out meant struggle, meant fewer words and a slower pace, meant watching kids go up to blue or yellow while I stayed behind, stuck in red.  I can't think of first grade without the image of a big blue and white cat coming to mind.  By then I wasn't even in the classroom for math and reading.  And because the concepts of addition and subtraction were difficult for me to process, my math teacher used large plastic kittens to make things more tangible.  While I was counting cats in the resource room, the girl I most admired in the 1st grade was doing multiplication tables, which I mistakenly believed could only be done on the wooden table where these elite students worked.  In 2nd grade I remember trying desperately to escape to the nurses office to save myself from the torture that was mad minutes (where each student had to do as many math problems as possible in 60 seconds time).  

While these memories are a little painful, they also always make me think of the years that followed.  They make me think of the librarian turned 3rd grade teacher that I was lucky enough to have two years in a row, a teacher that realized my love for books and writing.  She helped me grow academically and as a learner by focusing on my strengths (which I did have), and in the process bolstered my confidence too.  I also think about middle school.  I no longer needed help outside the classroom but I remember telling one of the popular boys to shut-up, and some other things too, when he made a rude comment about one of our classmates who did frequent the resource room.  I'm proud of that little first grader for counting those cats day after day, even as her favorite friend got the pretty table in the center of the classroom for her fancy math.  And I'm really proud of that skinny 12 year old for telling that jerk where he could stick it because she remembered how it felt to be different and worried that everyone thought you were stupid.  I wouldn't change a thing about how my academic career started because it created a foundation that allowed me to succeed in-spite of my weaknesses.  I am now not only the proud owner of an undergraduate degree but a masters degree as well, with aspirations to one day get my doctorate.  I do not give my intelligence credit for these achievements.  All the glory goes to my motivation and perseverance, things I learned way back in my days of counting cats.   

It is a little ironic that I now happily and confidently stroll down the hallways and sit in the classrooms of a school not that different from one that 25 years ago made me want to run home and back into the arms of my mother.  But I believe this gives me a huge advantage as an educator and counselor of our little people, especially the ones that struggle.  When I peel a first grader out of his mother's arms and listen to him come up with every excuse in the book as to why he has to go home, I get it.  When a forth grader starts to cry everyday at the mention of math class, I get it.  When a student suddenly comes down with a headache or stomach bug every-time the words test, assessment, or quiz are mentioned, I get it.  I'm a stronger person because I didn't easily come by what I have.  My hope for my children, the ones that came from my womb and the ones I counsel, is that they learn perseverance and the value of working hard even if it doesn't in that moment get them to the head of the class.  

So for anyone out there that is struggling, finding that things aren't coming easily, looking around and feeling like you are falling behind.  I say to you, just keep counting those cats, keep working hard, keep showing up.  I truly believe it  will pay off for you twofold someday.  

Magical Boo or My Magnificent Mammary Glands

Ben tandem nursing his babies.  

Woman are amazing.  I'm pretty surprised that I'm attracted to men because I absolutely think women are the more interesting and capable sex.  Men might have the ability to grow bigger muscles and I'm sure thousands of years ago that was sort of valuable.  But in 2012, although there are some careers or lifestyles in which being able to carry heavy crap is important, most people just don't need to be able to bench press 300 pounds in their day to day life, not that necessary (and really how many of them can actually do that anyway?).  

On the other hand, woman have the ability to grow inside them human life (yes, I know with a little help from that less impressive sex).  Not only can we grow human beings but we have the ability to feed those little humans by just flashing some skin, that's pretty awesome planning on someone's part (thanks, higher powers).  Bottom line, women are awesome and I am super proud to be one.  Having kids has given me this whole new respect and admiration for my body, especially in light of the recent accomplishments by those two lumps of fat on my chest (more to follow).  

If there was a photographer in my home, taking pictures of me throughout the day and night, just randomly clicking away every 15 minutes or so, my guess is he or she would find me with at least one child on my breast at least 75% of the time.  If this sounds like an extreme, exaggerated number to you, then there is probably a valuable piece of information about me and my family that you are missing.  And that minor detail is......... all three of my children currently breastfeed.  Not just that, but breastfeeding is sort of their thing.  While other children have a favorite blanket or stuffed animal, my kids have my boobs to cuddle up with and they're pretty happy about it.  It usually works out for me too.  I don't have to worry about bottles and I can quickly comfort an upset, hurt, or sick kiddo.  But I do have those moments when I would like my body back, to put up a sign that says "closed due to overuse" or cover my nipples with some bandaids and claim to be broken (which, by the way, I have actually heard of women doing).    

So you ask, how did I get to a place where making milk has become my claim to fame?  Flashback to my pregnancy with my son, I knew enough about breastfeeding to know that it was worth giving a try.  I also knew enough to expect it to be difficult, especially because I would be returning to work only a mere 10 weeks after having my son.  On top of that, I had also had a lump surgically removed from my breast a couple of years before Ben came along, and I was a little worried that might have a negative impact on my ability to produce milk or my baby's ability to latch onto that nipple.  Although I knew that the Academy of Pediatrics recommends breastfeeding for at least a year, I figured 9 months was a more realistic goal for me since that would mean nursing throughout my maternity leave, the 16 weeks left in the school calendar, and throughout the summer when I could be home with my bambino. 

Minutes after Ben was born, when I recovered from the euphoria (at least partially) of having my tiny son in my arms, I asked the nurse if I should try offering him the breast (I had heard that nursing right away increased the chances of a successful breastfeeding relationship).  She said that while I could try, I shouldn't be disappointed if it didnt work out  right away.  I stuck that nipple in my son's surprised little mouth and I'll be damned if he didn't start suckling almost instantly.  Convinced that I couldn't possibly be doing it right, I gestured to the nurse to come check things out.  She smiled and gave us a thumbs up.  15 or 20 minutes later I asked if I should try switching sides.  Again I was told to give it a try but that Ben might be tuckered out or my other nipple might not be as accomadating.  Again we found great success and Ben was crowned king of breastfeeding, a title he still happily holds.  Nursing continued to go smoothly so I kept pushing back my goal: 9 months, 1 year, 18 months.  Then a curve ball was thrown at us.  A curve ball in the shape of two tiny embryos in my uterus.  

As I described in my previous blog, The Truth About the Twins, I had many concerns when news of the two little people growing inside me got through to my poor, shocked little brain.  One of my main concerns was my son and the impact two new siblings would have on him.  According to the sonographer, Ben should have been feeling the effects of his growing siblings right away.   When I told her I had an 18 month old that I was still nursing, she immediately replied "you better go home and start weaning that baby".   She was one of many people who basically told me that it would be impossible not only to nurse three children but to nurse while being pregnant with twins.  Fortunately, my doctor was not one of the people with this incorrect advice.  She not only supported my decision to continue breastfeeding my son through my pregnancy, but also didn't look at me like I was a nut when I told her I was going to try nursing all three of my kids.  Thank goodness for her because nursing my son throughout my pregnancy and continuing to nurse him after the twins were born turned out to be the right decision for us (or at least the kids and I).  I'll let Sean write his own blog about his very mixed feelings.

I am certainly not going to sit here and tell you that it was always easy to nurse an active, not always gentle, toddler while dealing with incredibly sore and tender nipples.  In fact while I was pregnant Ben would often announce, "this is gonna hurt mom", before he latched on.  I guess I screamed a little too loud once or twice.  


If you've been to visit at all in the last four months, you know that my boobs are in high demand.  In fact, at any given time of day, Ben can tell you the line-up of whose at bat (or boob in this case) and whose on deck.  There are times I feel more like a refrigerator with a revolving door than a mother.  This being said, I still see being able to nurse all three of my small children as a blessing and a strength.  In fact, I think it's one of the things that has let us adapt so successfully from a family of three to a family of five (and most days I do think we're pretty successful).   

My current breastfeeding goal with my son is to allow him to wean himself when he is ready.   That might be the one goal that I am not able to attain.  I've read on KellyMom (an amazing resource/website for nursing moms) that most children, when allowed to wean on their own, do so between 2 and 7 years old.  I think Ben might be on the 7 year plan, especially since he now refers to nursing as "magical boo".  Since he has been able to talk he has always called nursing "boo".  The magical piece was thrown in after Sean was making fun of Ben and I for nursing every time Ben so much as nudges into something.  My response was to tell my husband that he just didn't understand how magical boo was.  Well, my little two year old sponge was listening and it's been "magical boo" ever since (it does sort of have a nice ring to it).

I'm not so sure I'm hip with the seven year nursing plan.  I'm thinking Ben will probably be getting the old boot  around three, three and a half if he's lucky.  As far as the girls go, my goal is to make it to a year, we'll see how it goes from there.  Who knows, maybe I do have at least one early weaner in my midst (although I suspect this is not the case).  But whatever, there are way worse problems to have than three breast loving kids.  And for the record, at this point, I have grown accustomed to the strange looks I get when I tell people I am still nursing Ben along with the girls or when they see it for themselves.  This is one thing that I have no problem being judged for.  I won't hold it against you if you think I'm crazy.  On the other hand, if you say something supportive or give me a high-five for effort (and many of you do), it does give you serious Bri bonus points.  Who knows, maybe someday they'll be worth something!