Only love can win

I’m going to say some stuff here that some people may not like.  And that’s okay.  We’re allowed to have a difference of opinion and still love each other around here.  If you can’t do that, allow me to tip my hat to you as you make your way over to another, less offensive blog for now.  Hope to see you back here real soon.

So here’s the deal:

There’s some shit going down on the other side of the world.  It’s all over the news on tv and on the radio and in the paper and in social media.

A lot of people have been all up in my Facebook these days with their opinions on the recent flareup of violence in the Middle East.  I’ve got people filling up my newsfeed with pro-Israeli reports and other people filling up my newsfeed with pro-Palestinian reports.  And other people filling up my newsfeed with cat videos, which is the most offensive of all.  But I digress.

I’m not an expert in politics in general, and I’m certainly not the most knowledgeable about Mideast politics.  It seems that the issues run so deep and so far back and are so tangled up in culture and religion and economics that to truly understand the heart of the matter would take years of study and conversation and to be quite honest with you, my heart just can’t take it.  Just scratching the surface of it right now is almost too much to bear.

Because I have a daughter who is both Jewish and Muslim.  She has blood coursing through her veins that carries the history of slavery and oppression, of conquerors and pharohs, and of people who just can’t freaking get along.  And truly, I worry sometimes about the weight she will carry in her life because of it.

The day will come when she will ask me what side I’m on.  My opinion will matter not only because I’m her mother, but because I’m a Muslim woman who chose a Jewish man.  And I still choose him, happily and wholeheartedly, every single day.

And also I know, in her heart, she will be asking me what side she should be on.  But how can she pick a side?  How can she turn her face to her left, trying to deny her right?  How can she pretend that choosing in favour of one side isn’t also choosing against another, and that would mean choosing against herself?  How can she choose between her mother and her father?

In our house, in our family, she will never have to.  I am committed to this with all my heart, and I will shoot down and knock out anyone in our extended families who try to sway her to one side.

We are not going to get into who’s right and who’s wrong.  Both sides have arguments that are valid, and both sides have arguments that hold no water with me.  So they can have their reasons, and they are welcome to them.  And that’s what we will teach our daughter.

And when she asks how she is to choose a side, we will tell her she doesn’t have to.  All she has to choose is love.  Each side feels they are right.  Each sides feels they’ve been wronged.  Love them both.  Honour them both.  Fight for them both.  Not for one side to win, but for both sides to win.  Not for one side to conquer,overcome, and defeat, but for love to conquer, overcome and defeat.

We will not pick sides.  We will simply hold up love as our standard.  That’s all she needs to know.

Failing

Giselle Bundchen is such a bitch.  Not because she’s tall and thin and rich and beautiful.  (And really, that last one is debatable.  Stu – smart, smart man that he is – said Giselle is way too skinny.  Yay, Stu!!  Good husband.)

No, this week, Giselle got her name in my bitch book because of something she said two years ago.  Remember this?

According to Giselle, any woman who gives her baby formula, for whatever reason, is basically poisoning her kid and breaking the law of the universe that says one boob fits all.  So to speak.

It was a bitchy thing to say, and her lame backtracking was just as bad, but I didn’t really dwell on it until this week.  This week, it hit home hard.  And I decided that Giselle needs to shut up all over again.

Really though, it’s not Giselle I’m mad at.  It’s me.

Amira was doing all good until a month ago.  We went to the doctor, got her all shot up with her vaccinations, and had her weighed.  She came in at the 3rd percentile for weight.  That’s right.  Not 30th.  3rd.  So the doctor said she needs to gain weight faster, and that I should feed, feed, feed her and bring her back in a month for another weigh-in.  It’s like Weight Watchers for babies, but the scale should be going up, not down.

So over the course of the month, I feed Amira as I always have – whenever she asks for it, and as much as she wants (or so I thought), and I think we’re doing okay.  I notice that I don’t have as much breast milk as I used to, but the internet machine tells me that my body has just adapted to Amira’s needs, and doesn’t need to make more than that.  And during this time, Amira’s getting fussier, and I wonder if she’s teething.

We go back to the doctor a couple of days ago, where we find out that Amira has fallen below the 3rd percentile for weight.  It’s not that she didn’t gain any weight, she just didn’t gain enough.  The doctor asked me if Amira has been fussy.

Me: Yeah, I think she’s teething.

Doc: No, she’s hungry.

She may as well have just ripped my heart out of my chest right then and there.  She’s hungry.  So all this fussing has been because I haven’t been producing enough milk to keep her full.  I could have just died.

The doctor suggested I try herbal supplements before turning to a prescription to increase my milk supply.  She suggested I use the breast milk I pumped and stored in the freezer to top up my baby after each feeding.  Those precious drops of liquid gold that I’ve been saving in case of an emergency.  Well, this is an emergency.

She suggested I consider supplementing with formula, and indicated that if I run out of frozen breast milk, and my supply doesn’t increase, that’s what I’ll have to do.  And that’s when Giselle’s comments came back to me.

Bitch.

I’ve done everything I can to keep Amira fed naturally.  I’ve gotten up countless times in the middle of the night.  I’ve fed her in our home and others, in restaurants and on park benches.  I got up in the middle of the night to pump excess milk so I would have a stockpile in the freezer.  I’ve resisted giving her formula – even when others told me it would help her sleep longer through the night – because I’m her mother.  Feeding her is my job.  It’s the most natural thing in the world.  I know lots of women have trouble breastfeeding, or choose not to for their own reasons.  But this was never a choice for me.  Even in the throes of my pregnancy, when I was most apathetic about it, still, I knew I would breastfeed her.  Because I’m her mother, and that’s my job.

And now I’m failing.

I’m failing at the most natural thing in the world.  At the thing all mothers in the animal kingdom do for their children.  I can’t just feed my daughter the way I’m supposed to. Now it’s “take these herbs” and “pump at this time” and “top up after this feeding” and maybe give her the formula.

Oh, the formula.  I don’t want to.  I’ll fight it tooth and nail.  But if I have to, I have to.  What can I do?  Maybe Giselle can come over and fix all my breastfeeding woes so that Amira will eat with no problem the way Giselle’s son apparently did.

I’m not here to judge what other women do with their children.  We’re all doing the best we can.  Besides, I’m way too busy judging myself.  And worrying about how Giselle and her friends are judging me.  And wishing she had just kept her tall, thin, rich, beautiful, bitchy trap shut.