Milk Donation: Labor of Love

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780oz (6 gallons) of breast milk for donation

Milk donation… it’s an ancient practice to share one’s breast milk with another’s child. However, somewhere along the way it faded into a fray movement… a suspiciously regarded practice associated with pachuli-scented hippies and cloth-diapering baby-wearers. I am none of those things (I rest somewhere around a 4 on a 1-10 scale of hippiness). Though, I do wear #3 as a matter of survival since I have yet to sprout a third arm. Mainly, I am a believer in sharing one’s excess with those in need.

When I sort through my pantry and donate boxed and canned goods to my local the local food pantry, no one bats an eye. When I donate old housewares and clothes to charity, no one flinches. When I donated my hair, others asked for details so they could follow suit. When one gives blood or agrees to be an organ donor, society regards the act as socially responsible. However, when people hear I donate my surplus breast milk — 20oz daily that accumulates, unused, in my chest freezer because my littlest eats straight from the tap — to a mom who cannot make enough, despite her phenomenal efforts, people get twitchy.

Moms of young children who have nursed and/or pumped breast milk are generally impressed and express interest. Individuals who have not nursed or were brought up when formula companies were heavily marketing their product as being “better than nature” often respond in disgust, trepidation, and/or bewilderment. Honestly, though, I don’t care what others opinions are on the topic (though I wish for wider acceptance and awareness, of course); their opinions won’t hinder my donations.

“Why don’t they just use formula?” Some quip. Formula isn’t always a feasible option. Some babies can’t or won’t drink formula, and some families simply do not prefer to use formula (just as some families choose not to breast feed.) Often, babies who are sensitive to dairy ingested by their breast milk provider also react to soy-based formulas. In these circumstances — if the mother cannot produce enough breast milk or is waiting for dairy to leave her own system so she can provide her own breast milk for her child without causing him/her pain, or if the dairy-sensitive child’s guardian is not a lactating female — a milk donor who does not eat dairy products is the route to go. As a dairy-free donor, I donated thousands of ounces to nourish such children.

“Isn’t it risky?” People ask, citing concerns over disease and bacteria. Milk-sharing is an informed risk, like consuming raw seafood or eating bake sale goods. Donors who have been screened by milk banks — milk banks are an option for some recipients to use as a means to receive donated milk, though it would be costly and not all qualify — complete medical screening akin to blood donor screening. Milk banks take a further step by pasteurizing the donor milk. Milk recipients can pasteurize milk at home, if desired. However, many pathogens are eliminated when the milk is frozen, as is the standard method for donor milk to be delivered to recipients.

“You can’t trust people; how do you know the milk you’re receiving is safe?” If you receive donated breast milk — which is different from purchased breast milk — you are being given breast milk from a mother who (except in cases of infant loss) is providing that same milk for her own child. That mother is providing you with milk she had either originally pumped and frozen with the intent of feeding it to her own child, or she is pumping the breast milk purely for donation in addition to nursing her own child. Each pumping session takes 15-45 minutes, this does not count cleansing the pump parts or bagging and freezing the milk. The mother is doing this without receiving any repayment and often loses money due to milk bag and pump parts costs. It would be incredibly bizarre for the donated (not purchased) milk you receive to be anything but pure breast milk, pumped with the loving intention of nourishing a child.

“It’s body fluid. Eww!” First of all, breast milk is not equal to blood, stool, or urine. Breast milk is created solely to nourish a child; it is food. Breast milk is filled with antibodies and has amazing antibacterial properties, thus enabling it to be surprisingly resistant to spoilage. Cow’s milk is just as much a bodily fluid as human breast milk.

The main thing to remember when seeking a donor or when becoming a breast milk donor is: open, honest communication. Recipients should feel free to ask potential donors about medical history, dietary habits, drug and alcohol intake, etc. Most donors welcome and expect these questions, as long as they are asked graciously and respectfully of course. Similarly, donors should feel free to ask why the milk is being sought, how old the child is, etc.

Breast milk donation

Bagging 320oz of frozen breast milk

Oversupply, despite its downfalls (clogged ducts, risks of mastitis, engorgment discomfort, frequent pumping, etc.) is a gift for which I never would have asked but for which I am immensely grateful. I cherish being granted the opportunity to help nourish another’s child, to have my oversupply make sense considering others struggle with production, to have amazing families become a part of my life by way of milk-sharing. Milk-sharing has enabled me to turn an otherwise bothersome medical anomaly into an immensely rewarding service.

If you know of anyone interested in milk donation, whether as a recipient or as a donor, I am more than happy to be a resource. Milk-sharing is a fulfilling way of sharing love and excess with others. Aiding others in beginning their own milk donation journey is an undertaking I adore. Share on!

Ups and Downs

#2 learning to rollerblade

#2 on his first rollerblading attempt

Falling. It’s a part of life. Bumps, bruises — to the body and the ego — are life’s way of teaching you, molding you, and keeping you humble.

Getting back up from a fall is painful, trying, and necessary. Learning how take a tumble and pull yourself back up again without becoming disheartened, that’s a valuable life lesson.

On this beautiful April afternoon, #2 tried rollerblading for the first time. “You will fall,” I warned him as I strapped on his safety gear, “it’s ok. What you need to do is learn how to get back up. Soon, with more practice, you’ll fall less and get up faster. Just know you will fall today. You’ll fall but you’ll get back up and be fine.”

He wobbled and rolled and tumbled. He scrambled awkwardly to coerce his bumbling toddler limbs, encased in oversized safety padding, to pull his 30lb frame upright. He’d try and fail, get halfway up and fall back down. I offered my hand for stability only. He — determined — refused. He plopped down on the driveway, deflated.

“You can do this. You’re strong and you’re smart. Think before you move and you’ll be up on your feet in no time.” He looked at me through the visor of his helmet, paused, slowly pulled himself up to squatting, and then to standing. He did it!

“My ride my bike now.”

Learn how to fall and get back up: check.

Froyo Meltdown

A weekday outing to get frozen yogurt with friends… gold star playdate overflowing with giggles and sprinkles, no? Unless you’re #1. #1 took this sugar-soaked opportunity to release her inner demon spawn in public.

As I ensured #2’s container remained free from allergenic contents, #1 grabbed a mamoth paper cup and began pulling serving handles, pouring ribbons of frozen colors into her container. I caught her as she reached the fourth lever. I took the cup: “Only Mommy pulls the handles, hon’.” #1 was irritated.

I moved to the toppings. #2 wanted gummy frogs. As I plopped two jiggly, technicolored frog-shaped blobs into his dairy-free treat, #1 melted on the floor because she had a dollop of melting frozen yogurt on her finger. I handed her a napkin. Unsatisfactory! I offered to help her wash her hands after we pay. The horror!

“You have until the count of three to choose your toppings, or you don’t get any.” 1… no movement 2… a scowl. 3. I put the paper bowls on the scale, smiled, nodded, and paid as the teenage cashier looked back and forth between me and my enraged firstborn, who was now writhing like a rabid octopus and demanding toppings.

#2 and #3, completely unfazed by #1’s public display of demonic possession, sat and partook in the playdate. I invited #1 to calm down and join us.  “I don’t like ice cream without toppings!” “I’m sorry you didn’t choose in time. We’re here with friends. You can either be friendly and join us, or go alllllll the way down to the end of the bench and sit by yourself. I’ll hold onto your ice cream.” She wailed her way down the bench and curled up angrily in the corner.

The rest of us chatted and the well-behaved children happily slurped colorful frozen spoonfuls. “Stop talking!” #1 barked from her pouting perch. I glared at her and returned to the conversation. “This isn’t fair!” She lamented as she scooted closer. I turned to her and quietly gave her one more chance, reminding her that she’d be sad later if she wasted this fun playdate being grumpy. She fumed. I turned back around.

Then I see #1’s sparkly light-up sneakers next to me. She has returned. She scoffs at her naked, partially melted frozen mound — which #3 had sampled — and rejoins the playdate.

Frozen yogurt playdate: survived.

 

 

Mini-Mommy

At 4.5-years-old and the eldest sibling, #1 has some strong maternal inclinations showing through. She rushes downstairs in the morning, breezing past me and lobbing a quick “good morning” to her dad, as she belines it for #3. Hugs, cuddles, happy morning greetings, and excited playtime ensues.

After pre-bed storytime, which #1 and #2 like to do in my husband’s and my bed, #1 now likes to tuck in #2. She pulls up his covers, hands him his pacifier, sings him a song, then kisses him goodnight before gently closing his door and heading to her room for her tuck-in.

#1 has begun helping #2 go to the potty now too. She can be a little overbearing — insisting on a potty seat despite #2 not needing one — but is really quite thorough.

I may be able to take some time off if this continues!

Proud Moment

The parenting experience is comprised of moments. There are happy moments and sad moments, fleeting moments and exhausting moments, memorable moments and mundane moments, beautiful moments and grotesque moments, tender moments and frustrating moments, embarrassing moments and proud momrnts. This morning was a proud one.

#2 had to get blood drawn for a food allergy panel. He was patient in the waiting room. He advocated for himself when he was nervous by asking to sit on my lap as we waited our turn. He was friendly to the phlebotomist and so brave during the blood draw — not even a flinch — that the phlebotomist called #2 his hero. Then, when we stopped for a smoothie on the way home as a reward for #2’s great behavior, #2 asked to select a treat for #1, #3, and his dad. He carefully selected a perfectly personalized and appropriate treat for each person. I was so impressed.

This boy who gets stuck in the oddest places, who has a flair for potty humor, and a shriek that can pierce eardrums, made me glow with maternal pride. We must be doing something right!

Diaries of a Nursing Mom

1) During a morning kid bath — utilized solely for the purpose of entertaining and containing #1  and #2 while I got ready for the day — #1 pretended to nurse Mermaid Barbie. “I’m the mommy,” she said to #2, “you’re the daddy. You can’t feed the baby.” “Well, if the mommy pumps breast milk into a bottle, the daddy could feed the baby,” I remind her. “Hand me the bucket, please,” #1 demands of #2. #1 places the bucket beneath her nipple for a five-count: “Here’s the breast milk,” she says as she hands the bucket to #2, “Now, you can feed the baby.” Then #1 cradles Mermaid Barbie back to her chest to “nurse” as #2 pretends to bottle feed his doll.

2) #3 bit me… HARD. (Three exclusively breastfed babies, months of pumping for my own children and, then, solely for donation; I’m no peach blossom.) “My kiss it and make it better.” #2 offers. I thank him but tell him Mommy will be OK. #1 reprimands #3 for biting: “Mommy feeds you. No biting!” Then I fish two shards of wicker basket from #3’s mouth. The basket from which I had just shooed him away because he likes snapping apart the woven pieces. Lovely.

3) #3 is experiencing a growth spurt, which means he nurses All. Night. Long. When he awakes in the morning, roughly 20-30 minutes after his last feeding, he greets me with a huge smile and a happy squeak. It’s as if he hadn’t been suctioned to me for most of the night. He’s either senile or charming, I’m too tired to know which one.

Easy, Cheap, Mess-free Inside Play Ideas

Stuck inside and trying to figure out how to entertain little ones without a huge mess? Here are our favorite inside activities.

1) Obstacle course: grab some plastic food storage containers or plastic solo cups and painters tape, then clear some space and set up an obstacle course. Twirl, hop, and weave the wiggles out.

2) Shaving cream in the tub: strip the kids down, pop them in the empty bath tub, then squirt a pile of shaving cream for each child. Add some washable toys (plastic boats, rinse-able dolls, small cars, sand shovels, etc.) for extra fun. Then just turn on the water to clean up.

3) Fingerpaints in the shower: use painters tape to adhere fingerpaint paper at kid-appropriate height to the shower walls, squirt finger paints on a plastic plate (one plate per child so as to avoid skirmishes), strip the kids down, pop them in a dry shower, and let them paint. Just remove the taped paper and paints, and turn on the shower to clean up the mess.

4) Bubbles in the bath: turn on some fun music, fill up the tub, plop the kids in the bath, then blow bubbles. For extra fun, try adding Gelli Baff (http://www.amazon.com/gp/aw/d/B012BP34TU/ref=mp_s_a_1_1?qid=1460303393&sr=8-1&pi=SY200_QL40&keywords=gelli+baff&dpPl=1&dpID=61y5XBN-7GL&ref=plSrch) to the water.

5) Costume dance party: pull out the dress-ups, turn on some music, then boogy down.

6) Picnic snack: spread a sheet or blanket on the floor, then have snacktime picnic-style.

7) Shakers: grab an empty oatmeal canister or an empty cereal box, have the kids place dried pasta, dried beans, plastic beads, or pebbles into the container, secure both ends of the the container closed with painters tape, decorate with stickers, crayons, etc. Then shake, shake, shake!

8) Make masks: Grab paper plates, scissors, popsicle sticks (or disposable chopsticks), painters tape, and crafting supplies to make masks. Cut eye holes in the plates, use the painters tape to secure the popsicle stick (or disposable chopstick) to the back of the plate to use as a handle. Then let the kids decorate with crayons, stickers, stick-on gems, etc.

9) Bowling: place plastic solo cups or plastic food storage containers (the tall cylindrical deli containers are perfect) in a triangle formation on the floor to act as bowling pins. Then stand back and roll a rubber ball to bowl over the “pins”.

10) Putt-putt: tape some empty paper towel rolls together or use an empty wrapping paper roll to use as a club. Tape a plastic solo cup sideways on the floor with the opening facing the golfer. Grab a small rubber ball and use your cardboard club to putt the ball into the solo cup “hole”.

 

 

Birthdays and Birth Days

When I was little, birthdays were filled with cake, gifts, and excitement. Days crossed off of calendars, years broken into quarters in anticipation of getting older; experiencing a birthday was magical. Each added year opened new doors, new possibilities. Birthdays were brimming with novelty.

Then, somewhere in the awkward gap between 18 and 21, when you’re not quite an adult but not quite a child, the luster began to fade from birthdays. They weren’t as exciting or so feverishly anticipated. They were nice days but nothing like the celebratory events of childhood.

When I became a mother, when I birthed my own children, I saw birthdays from an entirely new vantage point. Sure, there was the drama of labor and delivery, and — yes — there were the pains of healing, but it was the gravity of the day, the reverberating impact of each child’s birth day that was finally clear to me. The changes each child brought to my life and to me were astounding.

The love one feels as a mother is unparalleled. One simply cannot fathom such a level of devotion and awe until one is a mother. Each child’s birth day allowed me to experience that tidal wave of terrifyingly powerful love over again. My heart had developed a seemingly superhuman power of filling beyond capacity with love, time and time again.

As the anniversary of these birth days circled around, I processed my children’s growth with a mixture of gratitude, anxiety, and mourning. I was blessed to have healthy, happy, thriving children. I was anxious about the future, as uncertainty is unsettling even when the path is beautiful. I was mournful because with each added year, with each developmental milestone, my children stepped further from me and deeper into the outside world.

Now, as a mother, I experience my own birthday differently. Instead of feeling the childhood excitement of self-celebration, I feel a sense of gracious reflection and thankfulness. It is only now that I understand that what is my birthday to me is the anniversary of my own mother’s first birth day… the day that changed her life and self, just as #1’s birth day forever changed me.

Happy birth day, Mom!

Balance

Parenthood is all about balance: enough fresh produce to outweigh the chicken nuggets, enough activity to counteract the episodes of Doc McStuffins, enough good mommy moments to blur the bad mommy moments. Balancing time is, perhaps, the most challenging balancing act. It’s an ever-changing scale and fraught with imperfections.

To balance “you” time with couple time, one-on-one child time, family time, socializing time, household duties time, extended family time — the list goes on — is a juggling act that’s bound to falter. If you throw work into the mix, it gets incredibly complex.

Four months after having #1, I returned to my corporate job but as a part-time employee. “What a perfect arrangement!” “You’re so lucky to have such a great balance!” People would say upon hearing of my work situation. It was good… but it wasn’t as perfect as it seemed.

Instead of being fully stay-at-home mom or entirely full-time employee, I existed somewhere in the middle with both home and work lives pulling me to give more. I felt as if I was half-ass’ing both sets of responsibilities. I couldn’t prioritize work without falling through on parenting and home duties, and giving more of myself at home meant scaling back at work. The one item missing in this work verses home balance: me. I was so harried trying to simultaneously be both working mother and stay-at-home mother that I had left “me” time out of the equation entirely… and couple time was nonexistent.

After having #2, and still working part-time, the only “me” time I had was when I was pumping breast milk for my son and eventually for donation. Then, a few significant corporate reorganizations presented me with the opportunity to adjust my hours. I cut back to 15 hours per week instead of 20 hours. That worked for a bit, until work expectations rose to the level of a 20-hour workweek despite my abbreviated schedule.

When I became pregnant with #3, another ruthless set of corporate reorganizations was sweeping through the cubicle farm and I was one of the casualties. It was a hard hit, at first, and I made the long drive home in a fit over how I could figure out another work path. I had always wanted to be a stay-at-home mom, but I was so accustomed to working and living the chaotic balancing act, that I didn’t know another way.

Then, while sitting at a red light positioned at a dead-end, my inner voice said, “This is what you’ve always wanted. Why are you fighting it?” A calm swept over me. I smiled. And with that, the light turned green and I turned left toward home.