thefutureisred

Breastfeeding Is Creepy: The Middle Ground?

Earlier this week, I published an article on Matador Life titled Uberboober VS Formula Funbag: Choose Your Weapon. Who knew by the end of the day, I'd be interviewed by the BBC because of what I wrote?

 
Yes, it did bother me to hear Kathryn Blundell, deputy editor of Mother & Baby Magazine, call breastfeeding creepy. Why? Because it feels like a personal attack. I breastfed Lila for almost two and a half years. So then you must think I'm creepy too?

As I read more about Ms. Blundell's article, I began to see beyond the surface layer of words and to what I think is the core of the matter. We moms are too often put in a position of defending our parenting choices. Most times, it feels no matter what we choose, we will be wrong.

While still living in Brooklyn, I started a mother's group. Ok, it was for all parents, but rarely did a dad appear at our get togethers. We met for coffee, play dates, nights out, but mainly it was a place to go for support. In my two years running that group, I never once heard a woman badmouth another mother's parenting choices.

Common experience leads to common support, not discord. That is how it should be.

Then I Got the E-mail from Claudia Bradshaw

Claudia produces the BBC's World Have Your Say live radio show. She asked if I'd be willing to go on air and discuss Kathryn's statements.

Abso-freakin-lutely!

You can listen to or download the entire program on the WHYS website. It will only be available until next Wednesday when a new show airs and you have to scroll down to find the Breastfeeding is Creepy download link.

The Discussion Continues

Another woman speaking on the show with me, Morgan Gallagher, felt she was not allowed to discuss what she wanted. When she brought up the dangers of formula feeding, she was cut out of the show altogether, and thus did not take part in the African broadcast segment of the show. 

Since then, a Facebook group called The Final Straw, sprung up to support Morgan. They ask that the BBC apologize and grant her the right to share her views, particularly to the African population. Since she was not able to share on the radio, she tells her side of the story in her most recent blog post. You'll note in the comments, Chloe, one of the World Have Your Say producers and Ros Atkins, the show's live moderator, respond to Morgan.

I do not see the situation in quite the same way as Morgan. I tend to see a middle ground, but I would love to continue the discussion. Morgan has expressed the same on her post.

I look forward to talking more.

Photo by James Kendall of the Pistoleers and Random Duck

I May Be Flexible, But....

We're back in Atlanta and I'm in search of a good yoga studio. My requirements?

It must be nearby. It must have drop in classes. And it must be real yoga, not the kind of power yoga that turns a relaxing, challenge for your mind and body into the equivalent of a stretching on a treadmill.

It's not too much to ask. I know this. There have been studios that fill these three requirements in every single place we've traveled. Be that a small yoga class on the dock in Bocas or the three excellent studios within ten minutes of my bed in Buffalo, they're easy to find.

Usually.

Not here. I'm having the damndest time.

Ok, well, there is one place, called Sattva Yoga & Healing within walking distance. It does fill all my requirements. The philosophy and the classes look solid. The studio is pleasant and comfortable.There's just this one, well, there's just this thing that makes me a bit hinky. You see, this place is not only a yoga studio, but doubles -- should you require it -- as a colonic irrigation center. As the sign says, Yoga and Healing (wink wink).

At first, this was a source of much jokery. Yeah, let's go to the yoga place for a root and toot.  Or Noah's favorite, "Hey, we could go on a date." Can they do two at the same time? But now that I'm actually here and ready to attend classes, I'm finding it difficult to be quite so flippant. I checked the website and what I saw truly traumatized me.

Basically, you lie on your back on machine that looks like a pinball game. This contraption is called the, ahem, Colenz. Next, you insert the nozzle and lay a drape sheet over your lower half. There's a sign clearly stating, though, that the FDA requires everyone insert his or her own nozzle. For whatever reason -- a reason I am only mildy curious to know -- the technician can't do it for you. My guess: this reduces the number of fetishists coming in their door. (Or perhaps that's just an insight into my thinking I didn't need to share?) I'll stop right there with this description, but I will say the rest involves low pressure warm water, a scoop and handi-wipes. 

For those of you who care to know more, you can see and read all about the ins and outs of colonic irrigation in full diagramatic detail right here. All I can say is that I've been somewhat traumatised by the whole thing since I read it late, late one night last week. And I am not generally faint at heart when it comes to discussing body functions. I mean, I have an ongoing discussion about bedsores with a nurse friend of mine, and after spending more than one night covered in my sick shivering child's vomit, well, you see what I'm saying.

Otherwise, I have found no other yoga studios within a 20 minute drive. They may be closer mile-wise, but Atlanta traffic could use a bit of time on the Colenz too. So I may have to bite the bullet and just partake of these classes even with the Colenz in such close proximity.

Hey, you never know. Maybe I'll get used to being around them. And then, who knows where things can lead. They do, after all, have TWO machines.

The Politics of Poop

This afternoon I was reading a friend's blog. I swear, this time I was not procrastinating. I wanted to see which of two possible jobs she chose, and I didn't check IMDB once. She was talking about the daycare she just found for her son Ben. The woman running it had lots of questions and suggestions, mostly about poop. Only every other day! That's not good. Not good at all. How often does he poop? What are you doing to get him to poop more often? Are you regular?

When I read this story, I had to smile. It reminded me of Grandma Ruth.

Suddenly, I was whisked back to Pesach 1996. Not the first time I met her, but the first time I visited her home in Florida. Boca del Mar, I think it was. The one with the swimming pool and a longer walk to schul. You had to walk past a little lake on the way there. Noah and I went there often for night walks and such. (AJRBL) We both ended up with bug bites all over from those walks.

Grandma Ruth and Grandpa Charles lived in quite a few houses in their time. Four or five of them in Boca Raton. I knew only the last two of those. The memories of those places run together alot. Where did we ride bikes through the neighborhood. Where did we walk Dylan for three hours when he had diarrhea. Where was that huge fight. The one that started about the pillow, not about the dog. I try to differentiate by remembering which had the pool and which did they remove all the carpet and turn the pantry by the garage into another bathroom.

This one was the house by the pool: We were all sitting at their rounded wood kitchen table. It had big clawed feet with tall spindle-backed wood chairs around it. Overheard hung the Tiffany lampshade that followed them to all their various kitchens. This particular night, Grandma made latkes. Grandpa Charles, as always, prepared. Chopped onions, peeled and grated the potatoes, as Grandma Ruth sat on a wooden stool supervising. "Chop those finer. Rinse those in water. Now add eggs, flour."

Grandpa swears he doesn't know how to cook. He needs her direction.

At the table, Grandma, as always, sat forward on her knees. I think it gave her a better view of things. From there, she saw what and how much everyone ate, commenting if you were a good eater or didn't eat enough. Or she would watch the serving plates as they emptied. From time to time, her always manicured hands would reach out and pick a choice morsel from one of the plates then pop it into her mouth.

As we finished, she pushed back her plate and spoke with the most satisfied sigh. "Ah, latkes. I love them. I remember once time I ate so many I was compacted for a week.Grandpa had to take me to the hospital to get cleaned out."

One thing with Grandma Ruth. No subject was off limits. She asked when you were getting married, when you'd be having kids, when would another one be on the way. "Just promise me you'll have a child before I'm dead," she once pleaded with me. "Grandma," I told her. "You're just going to have to stay alive."

She was alive long enough to meet Lila. By that point, though, Grandma and Grandpa had already moved to Atlanta and were no where near as autonomous as they had been in Florida. There were no more frantic trips to Sawgrass Mills to look for a green wedding dress to walk down the aisle at my friend Gaelle's wedding. "Leigh, you look like a green angel in that dress." No long drives to Miami just to take me to lunch at a particular and very fancy kosher Chinese place. It was wonderful, Grandma and Grandpa.

That was the same also my first visit with them. Noah's flight left the day before mine, and the rest of the family were long gone on their return drive to Maryland. I was horribly nervous to be all alone with the formidble Grandma Ruth. She could really be a hardass when she wanted. But those days alone with the two of them cemented my relationship with them as one that was loving, caring and good.

There was a memorial in Atlanta soon after she passed away. What impressed me so much about it was the pure honesty when talking about her. She was not turned into a saint. Yes, she could be loud, mean, caring, pushy, loving, generous, bigger-than-life, honest, soft, nosy and did I say pushy? No one needed to pretend she was anything but what she was and every word of her came true and unvarnished.  Each story made us laugh and then in turn we cried.

Now, that big table sits in Jason's kitchen in Colorado. I picture him and his wife sitting there with their ten month old baby. The chairs backs are breaking, in spite of Grandpa Charles ingenious fixes over the years, and the stools remain with the rest of our things in storage in Atlanta. I'd like to keep them in the kitchen the very next time we have one.

I truly miss her. I do.

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Download VTS_27_1.wmv
This was taken in Atlanta at Aunt Jane's house-up-on-the-hill. I think Lila was 18 months old.