Hot Mama

Here’s a confession that will alienate me from the rest of the civilized world—I hate hot, sunny weather. Everything about it is miserable to me--the sweat that trickles down my back after literally standing outside only a moment, the nasty feeling and smell of sunscreen coated on my skin, having to keep the windows shut to keep the house cool, the misery of cooking over a stovetop because we can’t grill or have salads every day, and the fact that everything I love to do outside—long walks, taking the dog/baby out, shopping—all becomes a monumental chore when the mercury climbs. Unfortunately, I live in an area that can get very cold and very hot, so there is no escaping the extremes. We deal the best we can within our budget, and my husband patiently puts up with my griping every year when June, July, August, September hits. 

With this said, I am more than a little cranky this time of year. I rush to get inside to the welcoming AC, and grumble when I feel gross from walking to the car to my destination and back carrying Baby in her carseat/carrier. I’m conscious of what Baby must be feeling in this weather, and dress (or not dress) her accordingly, but mostly, it has always been about me.

Until day. I got a wakeup call that literally had me in tears.

It’s pushing 90 degrees on the thermostat with high humidity, but since that’s every day at the moment, I can’t always maintain my hermit status indoors. My mom doesn’t live far away and thought it would be a nice treat for the girls to have a shopping outing. We had a nice time (loving the store’s AC every minute), and finally decided it was time to get lunch, about a 15 drive away. 

I had been holding my daughter in the store and now, back at the car, tossed my keys in the car and proceeded to strap her back into her carseat as quickly as I could. It was hot outside. Even hotter in the car. I felt the sticky heat radiating across my skin. Once Baby was situated and buckled in, I slammed the door and marched over to the driver side to get in and blast the cool air on the both of us. 

Except the door was locked, and my keys were lying on the seat where I had foolishly thrown them.

I wish I could fully describe the horror that went through me at that moment. It was well over 110 degrees in that car, maybe more. Baby was strapped into a hot carseat. And she was trapped inside, while her selfish, preoccupied mother stood helplessly outside. I had no spare keys, and cops (in this area at least), do not respond to keys locked in car situations anyway for liability reasons. To top it off, the clock was ticking. My precious little girl was in there. I didn’t have the luxury of waiting. 

I was lucky. My husband was a 15 minute drive away, and while he was furious at being woken up (he works nights), and even more furious at me and the situation, he had a spare set of keys. He was coming to us within 30 seconds into my panicked phone call, and yet it was the longest wait of my life. I pounded on the window, called Baby’s name to make sure she was responding to me. Baby kept closing her eyes. Her breathing was more labored than normal.  I hated myself.

Meanwhile, my mom had turned on her car with the AC blasting. She had a bottle of water in there too. When my husband arrived a few minutes later and Baby was freed from her hot prison, I ripped her clothes off and sat in my mom’s cool car, bathing Baby’s skin with the water. She was flushed and sweaty, but otherwise she seemed like herself.

This situation could have turned out horribly. There are so many reports in the news of children dying in hot cars. My daughter would never have been among them—I would have smashed in the windows before that happened, but this proved an ominous warning.

Slow down. Deal with it. Think before doing. These phrases circulated my mind and I drove back home, Baby safe and sound. This was never the wakeup call I wanted, but it was the one I needed. Lesson learned.

What a Let Down...When Breastfeeding Ends

Everything is a first for me this time around. First time learning to change diapers. Learning to interpret cries. Learning to change outfits--quickly. Learning to dodge spit up, pack only the bare essentials on outings, and cope with less sleep. Realizing that this terrifying new thing--motherhood--is the most trying and rewarding experience of my life thus far.

And then there's breastfeeding. I will endeavor to sidestep the violent polarizing opinions out there on the subject and just say that it was something I always wanted to do, so I did. It was miserable, at first. No book or sage advice could prepare me for the agony of a hungry little mouth on chapped and bleeding nipples, the surprising burning sensation when the milk flows out, or the emotional sense of failure when I (temporarily), switched over to bottles to give my battered breasts a chance to heal.  

But I did heal, and nursing resumed. I loved it. Baby loved it. I nursed her for the recommended time, and then some. That wonderful oxytocin rush accompanying the let down reflex was a drug for us both. But it was not to last.

It was a solemn day when I realized that I had to start the weaning process. Baby was confused, I was traumatized. Nursing had been masquerading as this small event repeated throughout the day--a necessity for survival--but was really an intimate act that only I could share with her. Without it, I felt bereft, as if losing one of my key footholds of motherhood. I found so many resources out there to educate and support a new mother on starting to breastfeed, but very little for those concluding it.

My dedication toward weaning ebbed and flowed with the current mood of the day. Sometimes I stayed firm. Mostly, I just gave in. Baby's little eyes would close in contentment as she latched and gulped away, cementing my tumultuous  internal conflict.

Several weeks elapsed with my quasi weaning commitment until at last, I accepted the inevitability and endeavored to suppress my emotional torment. My little girl was still mine. She was healthy and beautiful. I did what I set out to do, and with the same resolve, it needed to end. Thus began the true weaning--so I nursed three times a day, then twice, then once, then once every two days.... and so on.

I knew breast engorgement would be an issue, no matter how plodding the weaning process, and it was. I hurt. I still hurt. And all the while, every time I passed Baby the bottle, (which she quite enjoyed now), I wished it was still me in which she derived that intense satisfaction.

As much as the first nursing session between Baby and I is engrained in my memory, so I knew the last would be too. I pictured this quiet, perfect moment in the rocker with the both of us content. It was not to be.

This was largely due to my own stupidity. We were meeting a family member we only saw rarely at a distant Starbucks early in the morning, and in our rush to get out the door, I left Baby's bottle in the fridge. Of course we didn't realize this until almost reaching our destination, but I hoped Baby's exceptional good nature would prevail over hunger pains. It did...for most of the visit. But she was getting fidgety after while and I knew exactly why. My husband sent me a desperate glance. We had no nursing cover-up with us, so I scooped Baby up and locked myself in the bathroom. There, sans fanfare, I stood and cradled her, and she nursed for the last time.

I'm finally getting past the physical ramifications of stopping breastfeeding, though I admit to feeling the pesky longing to see Baby latch and close her eyes in contentment. I'm still a bit bitter that a public restroom (eww) is forever memorialized as the final place I concluded a huge part of my experience of motherhood. But Baby's fine. I'm going to be fine. And God willing, I will get to feel that rush of nursing again someday. That's something to look forward to.