Author: thedairydiaries

My Breastmilk Donation Journey

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For one year, I have pumped three times daily for donation. That’s roughly 730 hours of pumping, predominantly to feed others’ offspring.

In the sleepless early months when supply was unregulated and ever-flowing, pumping three times daily was pure relief. My growing baby couldn’t possibly gorge himself enough to alleviate my oversupply. I also needed to deplete my reserves to manage my heavy letdown. If left unattended, engorgment would lead to clogs which would easily give rise to mastitis. (The dreaded “M” word… no one wants mastitis!) My heavy letdown caused my baby to choke and sputter, cry at the breast, and become gassy. So, I pumped.

I had entered into this third nursing relationship knowing I wanted to donate my surplus. I had discovered milk donation six months after having my second child. I had an overflowing freezer stash and needed to do something with the excess pumped milk. So I began researching and came across peer-to-peer milk-sharing.

I read through request posts on my state’s Human Milk for Human Babies and Eats on Feets Facebook pages. I discussed the possible venture with my husband. Then, I responded to a milk request.

At first, I had a recipient from a distant corner of my state who would occassionally retrieve milk. Then, I discovered I had a dairy allergy, and began donating every-other week to a local mom who required dairy-free donor milk. Once her daughter was weaned, I regularly shipped my milk to another recipient who lived in a bordering state four hours away. On occassion, I’d help a friend or acquaintance by giving 40-100oz. I also regularly donated milk while on vacation. Sharing breastmilk became akin to lending a cup of sugar to a neighbor; I had extra, she had none, so why not share?

This pattern continued until I was 19 months postpartum and very early pregnant with my third. Pregnancy has, thus far, been the only thing that dries my supply. As sad as I was to step away from donation, I knew wanted to rejoin the journey as soon as I could. So I did.

One week postpartum from my third child, I began pumping again. I wanted to start donating immediately, but I knew I needed to build a back-up milk stash, just in case. Three months and well over a thousand ounces later, I perused Human Milk for Human Babies’ page again. I posted an offer, received many responses, but one tugged at my heart so clearly I knew I’d found my milk baby. And so began my renewed journey of donating breastmilk.

Every few weeks my husband drops everything to help me ship breastmilk to my recipient. It is a lot of work but it’s a calling. On occassion, a friend traveling near my recipient will kindly agree to transport milk for me. Alleviating the stress, cost, and risk of shipping milk is always welcome.

Over the course of my donation journey, my surplus milk has fed 20 babies. To have the opportunity to help nourish so many children is a gift for which I’m immensely grateful.

As exhausting as it can be, I love being a breastmilk donor. Over 39 gallons of donated milk and one year later, I have yet to see a distinct endpoint to my path. As with everything in milk-sharing, it will be as it’s intended.

 

 

Appreciating the Scars

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Our kitchen table is worn. It’s weathered. It’s scratched and marked and mottled with imperfections. It’s not artfully or intentionally aged. There’s no shabby-chic crackle finish or sandpapered paint. It’s simply ragged in the way well-worn items are.

At first, when we inherited the large, solid wood table as recent newlyweds we were pleased. We figured it would suit our needs, at least temporarily, until we eventually refinished it or upgraded.

Occasionally, we’d flip through catalogs and dreamily contemplate which new table to purchase. The flashy trendy set ot perhaps the simpler, classic arrangement? Then, we’d see the prices and close the catalog, turning our minds to what new finish or paint could make our table look presentable. We didn’t have the time to devote to such a task, so we abandoned the flirtation. Glancing down at our patchy table in scorn, its flaws were amplified against the shine of the new.

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Then, came the children. Each child adding paint flecks, scratches, and scuffs to the already unevenly worn finish. As I looked at the bald spots and etching, rough edges and glitter embedded in deep scratches, I became embarrassed. I wanted to hide and cover the marred table. To disguise the wear and tear of its service.

Then, one day, while cleaning the crumbs from the tabletop, I looked up and saw my children’s chairs. I traced my finger along the pink paint left behind from the baby shower for my first child. I felt the fork scratches in front of my middle son’s seat. I saw the grooves left behind by my daughter’s overzealous hand as she’d begun to learn to write her name. Then, I saw the worn patch, the permanently blond spot on the edge of the table where Nonna, my grandmother-in-law, had sat. Her seat at the table was still clearly marked so many years after her death. That’s when I realized: these aren’t imperfections, they’re memories!

Each scar tells a story. Each fleck signals nostalgia. Each worn patch stands as a place marker, mapping the seats of dearest loves.

This table wasn’t flawed. It wasn’t broken. It was beautiful in an organic, simple way. It was strong.

Every day the table served us, absorbing our abuse and displaying our lives in a tapestry of wooden memoriam. It’s not perfect.  It’s loved. It’s ours.

Why I Ditched My Flatiron

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“Mommy, what’s that?” my nearly-5-year-old daughter asks, pointing to the flatiron I’m using to quickly straighten the rumpled collar of a dress she insists on wearing. “It’s a flatiron.” I respond, handing her the now-presentable frock. “Is it just a little iron for my dresses? Why was it with your hair brushes?” As I unplug the mechanism, I realize that she has no recollection of me ever using it. No memory of me searing my curls straight daily. Good!

I explain that a flatiron is a tool people use to straighten their hair. She asks why I have one since I don’t straighten my hair.

“I used to straighten my hair a lot when you were little. Then, when you were not even two-years-old, you began pulling your curls straight while looking in the mirror and saying you wanted straight hair instead of curls. I knew I needed to stop straightening my hair. I wanted you to appreciate your curls because they’re beautiful just the way they are.” “I like my curls,” she says, coiling her golden ringlets around her fingers, “I don’t want straight hair.” I smiled. “Good,” I said, “I’m glad you’re happy with your beautiful hair just the way it is. If, when you’re older, you want to play with flatirons and curling irons to change your hair for fun, that’s fine. I just don’t want you to feel you need to do it.”

“I know,” she replied, “I like my hair just the way it is.” Three years of not using any hot hair tools beyond a diffusser has proven fruitful. Mission accomplished!

Active Parenting

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For the past few months, I have made the conscious decision to actively parent my children. Not in terms of involvement — I already treat motherhood as if it’s my full-time, ’round-the-clock job — but in terms of physical activity.

Instead of feeling bitter and guilty for not being able to cram a workout into my nutty day, I make my nutty day my workout. If I can fit in some extra squats, planks, ab work, and such I will, but I don’t feel defeated if I can’t. I work my body in other ways.

If the kids are playing outside and I am presented with the option to sit or stand, I stand. If I am granted the opportunity to play with the kids or remain uninvolved, I play. If I am asked to give a piggyback, I bounce to up the fun and workout intensity.

This habit has not only made playtime more fun and helped me manage my weight, but I also feel more contented at the end of long kid-wrangling days. It has increased my appreciation for my body too.

I most certainly have things I would like to adjust about my body, things I’m still working on, and things I’ve learned to accept, but my strength and endurance are aspects I honor. What’s better: those are the exact elements I can control.

As I continue my active parenting efforts, I feel my body’s strength and endurance increase and that makes me proud. Not of myself, but of my body. “Did I really just play chase with three kids around a playground while nursing my baby in the carrier? Yes, yes I did!” “Did I really just bounce-skip up that hill carrying a 20lb baby and a 30lb preschooler? Yes, yes I did!” “Did I really just give double-piggyback rides to my 3-year-old and nearly -5-year-old 10 times across a pool? Yes, yes I did!” How could you not appreciate your body for allowing you to do that?

Not only am I happier feeling stronger and more accomplished, my kids are enjoying the playful parenting. (I’m still strict, but I can play too.) I feel contented knowing I’m making sustainable strides towards a happier, healthier life, and simultaneously enjoying and building memories with my children.

If decades from now I am able to play tag with my grandkids, if I’m able to carry all of my groceries inside without a second thought, if I’m able to live life without physical limitations, what a gift that would be. That is my goal. Until then, I’ll plan to have fun along the way.

Pickle Discovery & Vegan Soup Find

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I have been wasting my life until now! All of the grilled cheese — and “cheese” — sandwiches I’ve eaten and I only now thought to put dill pickle slices in between the goo-ified, crispiness? I haven’t LIVED! Believe me, it’s a must-try.

I also found a delicious, vegan soup at my local farmer’s market made by LAJ Foods. As the kids and I happily sampled the soup, the owner told me her own son has a dairy allergy and that spurred their dairy-free journey. Dairy-allergic, myself, I was hooked. I knew allergen safety would not be a concern with this vendor. I ordered a big container of the creamy kale soup on the spot.

I read the ingredients on the soup container and fell in love with the simplicity: kale, stock (celery, carrot, onion, lemon, kale, garlic), water, onion, coconut milk, nooch, parsley, salt. (For the dairy-free newbies, “nooch” is nutritional yeast, a vitamin-packed vegan powder often used to mimic a cheese flavor.)

After a jam-packed busy day capped off by late afternoon pool fun, an easy dinner was welcome. Our meal: Grilled Chao “Cheese” and Dill Pickle Sandwiches with Creamy Kale Soup. So yum!

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Dairy-free Veggie-sneaking Breakfast

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We like breakfast-for-dinner in our house but dinner means loads of veggies to me. So, when the kids requested breakfast-for-dinner, I figured out a way to sneak in as many veggies as possible without tipping them off. Our meal: squash scrambled eggs, zucchini pancakes, and berries.

First, I steamed an entire chopped summer squash, then pureed it in the blender. I cracked 5 eggs directly into the blender cup, sprinkled in salt and pepper, added a dash of garlic powder, and thoroughly blended the mixture. Next, I greased my pan with coconut oil before cooking the blended eggs low and slow on the stove, gently moving the eggs with a spatula frequently.

Next up: zucchini pancakes! I blended one chopped, raw zucchini in the food processor. Then I tossed in 1.5 cups of Wegmans’ pancake mix (our preferred dairy-free pancake mix), 1 egg, a tablespoon of coconut oil, salt, pepper, garlic powder, onion powder, a handful of fresh basil leaves, and a splash of cashewmilk. After processing the mixture, I cooked the pancakes as usual in a hot pan greased with coconut oil.

As the eggs and pancakes cooked, I plated the berries. Easy, healthy crowd pleaser!

SQUASH SCRAMBLED EGGS WITH ZUCCHINI PANCAKES AND BERRIES

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Ingredients

Squash Scrambled Eggs:

1 Summer squash (chopped)

5 Eggs

1 Tbl Cashewmilk

1 tsp Garlic powder

Salt and pepper to taste

Zucchini Pancakes 

1 Large zucchini  (chopped)

1.5 cups Dairy-free pancake mix

1 Egg

1 Tbl Coconut oil

2 Tbl Non-dairy milk

1 Handful fresh basil

1 Tbl Garlic powder (less if you’re not a garlic lover)

1/2 Tbl Onion powder

Salt and pepper to taste

Berries

3 pints of your favorite fresh berries

Directions

For the eggs, grease a medium-sized pan with your preferred oil (I used coconut oil) and heat on low.

Steam the squash in the microwave. Let it stand to cool for a minute before placing it in the blender cup.

Puree the squash until smooth.

Add the remaining egg ingredients to the blender cup and blend until well-mixed.

Pour the egg mixture into the greased and heated pan, gently moving the egg with a spatula every so often.

Plate the eggs once cooked to your desired doneness.

For the zucchini pancakes, grease a large pan with your desired oil (I used coconut oil.)

Place the chopped, raw zucchini into the food processor and process until uniformly chopped.

Place all of the remaining pancake ingredients into a food processor and blend until smooth.

Cook pancakes as usual, pouring dollops of batter onto the hot pan and flipping each pancake over as air bubbles begin to appear.

For a greener zucchini pancake, cook on low. For a more golden zucchini pancake, cook on medium.

Plate pancakes once prepared and top with your preferred butter substitute  (I used Soy-free Earth’s Balance.)

Pile your favorite fresh berries onto each plate, and enjoy!

 

Backseat Life Goals

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“I have lots of plans.” #1, my spunky, sparkle-loving, verbose nearly-5-year-old daughter, informs me from the backseat of the minivan. “I want to be a doctor, a princess, a rock star, and a person who builds houses.” I giggle at her terminology but grin with pride at her vast and varied aspirations. “Goals are good. Go for it, girl!” I encourage her. She smiles and looks out the window, “Oh yeah, and I want to paint people’s nails too.” She says, adjusting her glittery sunglasses.

“Why not?”

 

To Dive or Swim?

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“Congratulations,” the pediatrician said to #3 during his 1-year well-check, “you’re a toddler now!” And with that, I am now in a weird state of mourning, confusion, and relief.

#3 just had his first birthday and, being the delayed processor that I am, I am only now emotionally experiencing the life event. I am only now coming to terms with this possibly being my last baby.

No more heavenly calm of a newborn asleep on my shoulder, no more hourly nighttime feedings, no more infant coos, no more labor and delivery recoveries, no more baby cuddles, no more diaper explosions, no more tiny footsie pajamas. There is so much that would rest sadly and happily in the past.

As I process my mixed emotions I begin to wonder if we should have another. In no way does my body yearn to become pregnant again. In no way do I look at an expectant mom or new baby and palpably yearn to be in that life season. For the first time in 7 years, I am not craving a baby. But yet I fear letting go of this life stage.

Will I regret it later if we don’t try one last time? Will I regret it if we do? Would the extra addition prove to be just too much?  We’re already testing all of our limits with 3 under 5. Still, as ridiculous of a reason as it may be, having a baby would keep us in this life stage longer.

My children will keep growing, moving further into their own lives and away from me. They will develop and mature, they will identify as individuals instead of as my children. I know that having one more baby wouldn’t halt that eventuality, but it would prolong my stay in this harried, exhausting, yet wonderful time… the glory days of my maternal career.

Then I think of how much easier things are with #1 and #2, being past the infant neediness and the toddler self-endangerment phases. Potty-training is done, strollers are gone, self-sufficiency is increasing. They can communicate their needs clearly. They understand social expectations (though they don’t always meet them.) They can play in a room independently without risk of grave injury or damage. They squabble and tantrum, but they are increasingly independent. It’d be nice to have the demands of very young childhood behind us for convenience’s sake.

With a 1-year-old, 3-year-old, and nearly-5-year-old, I feel as if my head is just surfacing above a rough swell. It’s beautiful beneath the waves, simultaneously tranquil and perilous, but I can only hold my breath so long before I must rise for air. Once I see the world above the sea and breathe freely, can and should I dip down again knowing my submersion will only be temporary? Knowing that the surface I see now would be entirely different the next time I reemerge? Will the sea be too rough next time? But if I don’t dive soon, I’ll lose my chance for good. Will I mourn my missed opportunity?

I know I have months before I could even begin trying (thank you, breastfeeding for delaying that cyclical annoyance!) and I wouldn’t even want to start for a while (I survived 2 under 2 once… once was enough.) Still, as a planner, I want to know. I don’t feel ready now, but will I later? Will life simply make the choice for us one way or another? Who knows?

In the meantime, I’ll just tread water and enjoy the view.

Vegan Vanilla Frosting

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#3’s first birthday was nearing and I needed dairy-free frosting for his cake. I contemplated going the easy route and buying the generally dairy-free Duncan Hines canned frosting, but those have a funky aftertaste and way too much sugar for my taste. So, homemade it was.

I wanted something easy, something with few ingredients, something not terribly processed. I found a recipe online for a dairy-free vanilla frosting and prepared the concoction according to the instructions.

The frosting was good but not great. It wasn’t quite vanilla-y enough for me, it was a tad too salty, and it was too sugary. So I tweaked the recipe,  decreasing here and substituting there to create my own recipe. I much preferred it… Hubs and #1 did too. Here’s how I made it.

VEGAN VANILLA FROSTING 

Vegan Vanilla Frosting

Vegan Vanilla Frosting

Ingredients

1 1/4 cup powdered sugar
3/4 cup coconut oil (chilled)
1 tsp pure vanilla extract
1 small pinch salt
1 Tbl non-dairy milk

Directions

Add all of the ingredients into the bowl of an electric mixer.

Mix on low, scraping the sides of the bowl often (be sure to turn off your mixer when doing this.)

Gradually increase the mixer’s speed until you reach the highest setting, still stopping to scrape the bowl sides so everything gets blended.

Mix until the frosting reaches the desired texture.

Store in an airtight container and refrigerate if not using immediately.

Advice on Advice

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So often parents, especially new and expectant mothers, get bombarded with advice from resources near and downright bizarre. Thanks for the intel on how to cope with nipple biting, middle-aged single dude at Starbucks! This bounty of insights leads some guardians to universally rebuke all outsider commentary. How foolish! How short-sighted!

“Enough with the unsolicited advice!” “Unless you’re advising me on which wine goes with Cheez-Its, keep your advice to yourself!” “Why does my mother-in-law bother giving me baby-rearing tips… it’s MY baby?!” Some mothers vent.

I counter: accept the advice, every nugget you can scrounge. Ask present mothers in all stages of life for their learnings. They are your greatest resource. Then, dig through the mound. Sift out the out-dated, the unsavory, the inapplicable, and the ridiculous. What you’re left with is a priceless tool box with which to address your greatest life challenge yet: parenthood.

When strangers and loved ones are offering you advice, they are selflessly giving you free insights — lessons learned the hard way — so that you needn’t suffer. How beautiful is that?! What a gift (and you don’t even need to return it to Macy’s if it’s not to your liking!) The advisors are not implying you’re incapable or unfit by sharing their knowledge; they’re simply lending you a hand. They’re reaching out. Accept that donation with open arms!

Just because you listen to the advice from an elderly woman in line at Target, doesn’t mean you must follow her parental algorithm. Just because a co-worker emails you a list of her baby must-haves, doesn’t mean you are destined to purchase her recommendations precisely. Just because a neighbor chats you up about bottle vs. breast doesn’t mean you are contractually obligated to ammend your feeding choices. Instead, it means you are humble enough to know you are not omniscient, that you are aware your journey has only just begun, that you properly honor the knowledge of those who’ve gone before you. Basically, it means you’re wise enough to learn from others.

So, drop the ego. Holster the defensiveness. Ditch the dramatic tendency toward offense. And accept advice for what it is: a free gift that you may do with as you please. You may just learn something! I know I do.