They're only little once, right?

...let me begin by saying that I am wholly committed to extended breastfeeding, and letting my son wean himself at this own pace and when he's ready.  I wouldn't be nursing a toddler (34 months!)  if that weren't true.  With that being said...

Little Man is wearing me out.

Our entire family has been battling a weird cold/allergies/cough bug.  Just when you think you're over it, BAM!  Another annoying symptom.  Drake gets the worst of these, I think, because he's exposed to all the germs that his two older siblings carry home from school.  With an immune system already going haywire from all the new pollen he isn't used to, he's got no chance to stay cough free.

About a month ago I decided it was time to night wean my booby monster.  We have co-slept since he came home from the hospital, and the bed was getting a little crowded.  He was wanting to nurse when he awoke at night, I was waking up when he wanted to nurse, and neither of us were truly getting any sleep.  Drake has moved from needing breastmilk for nutrition to using it for comfort, so I was okay with putting a limit on night nursing.  At the time, DH was suffering from an infected tooth, and was sleeping upright in his recliner to ease the pressure in his face.  Perfect!  I put Little Man to sleep, wrapped him up, and placed him on the couch.  When he awoke, Dad was there to take over, and Drake inevitably went right back to sleep.  No booby, no Mama.  We were both in a better mood.

Now, Little Man isn't fully weaned.  He wants to nurse for his nap (if he takes one, but those are also spreading further and further apart), and its better than a band-aid for a boo boo.  But now he's sick.  And he wants Mama.  And bewbie.  Lots and lots and lots of bewbie.

I feel bad for him, I do.  And I know that all that white gold will help him get better faster, and keep him hydrated.  Its just one hell of an adjustment going from one brief ( two or three minute) nursing session every other day to feeling as if I'm nursing a newborn again.  Every time I sit down, he's on my lap.  If I try to get up to do something selfish (like *gasp* pee) he wails in DH arms.  He's slowly killing me.  I'm turning into a sleep deprived, bedraggled, unshowered Mama.  I smell like Vicks baby rub.  I have boogers crusted on my arm where he napped today.

But he needs me.  And that little glazed doughnut face looking at me, begging to nurse...who can say no?  They're only little once, right?

Today, I'm furious.

     I had an appointment at our local health center today.  I hate mass health centers, but its the only OB/GYN practice in my area that takes medicare.  It would never be my first choice to get care there.  You need a small amount of backstory, but the incident deserves a post in of itself when I'm ready.  Here.

     DH and I were TTC.  I finally got my BFP January 10th.  We were excited (thrilled, actually).  We told friends, family members.  We were shopping for cloth diapers and looking into birthing tubs.  At 8 weeks I started spotting.  At nine weeks, three days, we miscarried.  My body apparently refused to release the pregnancy, and so the decision was made that I should take Cytotec to help things along.

     The midwife that I saw for that visit was fantastic.  She cried with me in the exam room.  We discussed side effects, trying to conceive again, even fertility treatments.  When I arrived today for my two week check up, I expected the same treatment, even if it wasn't the same practicioner.  Damn...I was wrong.

     I expect to wait to be seen. I always come prepared with books or magazines.  I knew it would be difficult to be surrounded by pregnant bellies and newborns.  I had steeled myself for that.  Even the inevitable screw ups (they tried to discharge me after my bloodwork and before I'd seen the nurse).  I was zen.  I was prepared.  (I just wanted to get it over with.)

     So, here I am -naked from the waist down, clutching my paper sheet- truly wanting the exam over with so that I can discuss trying to conceive again.  In comes my nurse, without knocking, without telling me her name.  She hollers over her shoulder "chaperone in four!" and sits in front of me.  As she's checking my cervix, we're playing 20 questions.  Most of these are things I'd expect....bleeding, cramping, etc.  She asks me if I'd like a script for birth control, and I tell her no...we'd like to try again.  Then it comes.

     "Well...how many children do you have now?"
(we have three)
     "Well...if you really think you NEED another baby, I'd suggest waiting at least three months.  Really take the time to think it over.  Oh...and you may want to consider using that time to lose some weight, as well.  You don't want to be pregnant as heavy as you are."

     I was shocked.  Stunned.  Lying flat on my back with some strange womans fingers inside of me as she's pressing on my uterus and giving me reproductive advice.  WTF.  She babbled on about calling with my blood test results as she was tossing her gloves in the trash and heading out the door.  I'm not sure I was really hearing her.  The same two thoughts kept circling in my brain:

     I shouldn't want another baby.

     I'm too fat to have another baby?

     I shouldn't want another baby.

     I dressed and checked out, alternating between wanting to cry and being furious.  By the time I got home, fury was reigning, and I let DH know with no holds barred exactly how I was feeling.  His response?  Screw her.  File a complaint.  Damn doctors...what do they know?

     I have to wonder what I looked like to this woman.  A welfare mom, milking the system?  Some unmarried woman with three baby daddies living off the state?  Did she think she was doing me a kindness in urging me not to procreate?  Did she see me at all, or was she thinking about what she'd have for lunch when she was done with my chart?

     This clinic, I'm sure, sees lots of single moms.  I'm sure they see moms with multiple children, moms who are out of work, moms using welfare, moms who are minorities.  There's nothing wrong with needing help from social services....that's why they're there.  Whats wrong is treating me as if I'm some kind of fat ignorant breeder.  No compassion.  No interaction.  Not even a drip of humanity.

     Where does this leave me?

     It doesn't make me want to stop trying to get pregnant.  What it makes me is unwilling to return to the health clinic.  I flirted with the idea of unassisted birth because I'm so nauseated at the idea of walking back into that clinic "in a motherly way."

     But... babies need prenatal care.  And so do mommies to be.  I've started looking at smaller practices, run by midwives, but I've found that even those that accept my insurance want to be paid up front and ahead of time, and let you be reimbursed after the delivery.  I don't have $3300 just hanging around in my back pocket.

    So...what to do?  What DO I do?

    No fucking clue.

Welcome! (and a warning)

First, my disclaimer : this blog is for me. I've made it public
on the off chance that perhaps something that I'm going through or
doing may help someone else, but this is my means of venting. My
family and friends are welcome to join in the fun, but read at your
own risk. No whining about being offended, or TMI or foul language.

So - welcome to the blog of the Crunchy Pagan Parent! Our family
consists of myself, my husband, and our three fantastic kids. Gryphon
is nearly 8, Zoe just turned 6, and the baby (Drake) is almost three.
We're trying to concieve (TTC for the rest of the blog) baby #4, much
to the dismay of my mother in law. More on that later, I promise!