Monthly Archives: November 2009

A day without nursing

The Boychick has been nursing a lot less in recent months. It started when I needed to put limits on when and for how long he could nurse, especially during and around my period — I kept expecting the sensations to bother me less, and for him to nurse more, at different points in my cycle, but it never happened. Each menstrual period seemed to herald another step-down in frequency, duration, and because of that, production. Which only made the sensations worse, my aversion stronger.

But still, we were hovering at 1-3x a day for the past couple months: upon waking, usually before bed, sometimes another when he needed the connection.

Thursday night: I am lying in bed with The Man and the Boychick, after a day of feasting and family, of privilege and oppression, belly pleasantly over-full, heart full just-right. I am smiling, watching my lover read to our child. My mind is contentedly cruising over the day, when it occurs to me — he didn’t nurse this morning. It is bed time, he has easy access, but is already half asleep, and hasn’t asked. If he falls asleep without nursing now, he will have gone for one full day without nursing, for the first time ever.

And he does.

Watching him sleep, my brows crease, my breath catches. My eyes feel full, my breasts don’t; neither milk nor tears fall. The Man asks if I am OK. I shrug, nod, roll over, go to sleep.

When we wake up the next day, I ask him if he wants milk. He says no, tells his dad to pick him up and take him to the front room. The Man picks him up, asks him again — he considers for a moment before exclaiming “Yeah!” and diving back in bed with me. He latches on, and I stroke his hair and examine his face, all angles and dimples yet still softly curved, and in it I see both the baby he was and the man he will probably grow in to. He smiles without unlatching, and we nurse longer than we have in weeks — a few minutes per side, him swallowing but a few times in the whole session when just two short years ago, forever ago, he would have gulped twice for every breath.

I lose myself in him, in us, in this moment. I hurry to etch it into my memory, promise myself I will never forget, knowing even as I promise that the lines will blur, the image fade, and soon it will be impossible to look at him and see this not-baby not-child, just as I have forgotten the exact shape of his younger face.

He nursed again yesterday morning, this morning not. No evenings at all, and so perhaps this will be another day without nursing. Maybe we have nursed for the last time — maybe it will be months yet, though I doubt it, as much as I’d wanted to say we’d made it to three years. I likely won’t know the last time, won’t pause and study him and strain to memorize the moment like I did that morning. It will just not-happen one day, and then another, and then I will realize it is has been days, weeks, and the moment I’ll want to remember forever I will already have forgotten.

It’s not supposed to be like this, my heart cries, but this is exactly how it is supposed to be, I know. One moment, after another, each one the same as the one before: but in the small infinity of many moments pressed together, everything changes. My child grows up, my heart breaks and keeps beating, and life goes on.

31 Comments | Posted on 29 November 2009 by Arwyn | Tags: attachment parenting, breastfeeding

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USA Thanksgiving break

My parents are in town (WOOHOO!), there’s all sorts of cooking to be done (let’s not even talk about the cleaning), and, as always, my mind is full with far more posts than there is ever time to write.

So I’m giving myself a break.

Who knows if I’ll actually take it? Last time? Not so much. But I’m giving it to myself nonetheless.

And to you, I give this: the Boychick on Halloween, in his pumpkin T-shirt and my vampire-queen tiara (having stolen borrowed after much harassment after asking so very adorably), maybe-enjoying his first ever sucker (lollipop). Revel in the cute.

Bad photo, cute kid

7 Comments | Posted on 25 November 2009 by Arwyn | Category: Body, Life, the Universe, and Everything, Parenting | Tags: excuses, Gender, Meta, pictures, USA

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It all falls down

For the 20th time since the Boychick was born, my uterus sheds its endometrial lining. For the 20th time since the Boychick was born, it all slides down my vagina, falls between my lips, is absorbed by the cloth between my legs. I’ve talked about that before.

Here’s what I don’t talk about: all month, all cycle, I am falling out, falling down. My rectum falls forward, my bladder back. My uterus to the left, cervix perforce to the right (deduction rather is vice versa: os is found to the right, therefore uterus must be falling left).

It’s not something that bothers me — except when it does. It’s not something I talk about — except now I am.

The technical terms sound sweet, seem sinister: rectocele, cystocele. This one doesn’t even sound pretty with my eyes closed: uterine prolapse.

Well, prolapse, maybe. Pro-laps. Doesn’t sound too bad, if I don’t think too hard.

A fact: the suffixes -rrhoid and -rrhage both mean the same thing. And yet hemorrhoid and hemorrhage? Not so much. Go figure.

I have the ‘rrhoids, too.

True story (no really, this is relevant): when I was 12 years old, I went on a rickety old wooden roller coaster, was lifted out of my seat, and slammed back down. I’ve had low back and sacrum problems ever since. It’s also probably why my coccyx is, itself, fallen — in, forward, to the right. And that one hurts.

How these are connected: every. single. time I talk to anyone about my coccyx pain (chiropractors, doctors, massage therapists, cis women with similar issues), the answer is a variation on this: “Have you considered internal coccygeal adjustments?” “Maybe you should see a physical therapist who specializes in pelvic muscles.” “I know an acupuncturist who does vaginal treatments.” Every. Time. If I mention the rectocele as well? They redouble their recommendations. (Silly ideas about anatomy, and connection of internal organs. Pfft.)

Everyone, it seems, wants their hands — or their needles, and as much as I love acupuncture I’m trying not to think about that one — in my pussy.

OK, so it’s a nice pussy. I don’t really blame them.

But pardon me if I’m also disinclined to allow them.

And yet…

Why?

I went to a midwife who knew the uselessness of vaginal exams in pregnancy, knew how rarely they were indicated in labor. The only time in the last five years fingers other than mine or my lover’s (or, as they were sliding out in birth, my child’s) have touched my vagina were after birth, examining for tears (I had none). That is as it should be, it seems to me. Too quick are OB/GYNs to poke us, prod us. Too often “medical need” is code for “physician habit” and becomes client’s trauma. I know this, and so I am wary of exams, wary of allowing unnecessary violation of my bodily integrity.

But, might there not be necessary non-violations? Or, even desirable, beneficial, honoring touches?

I’m sure there must be. I am told — by women I trust, women who trust their bodies — that there are.

Still, I resist.

And I hurt.

And I still resist.

And I still hurt.

I don’t like talking about pelvic organ prolapse. Inevitably, it seems, someone is going to blame my weight, my big baby (10lb 6oz, and no I wasn’t diabetic, thank you very much), my homebirth, is going to say I simply need surgery. From the other side will come pronouncements that I’m Doing It All Wrong — I’m not eating right, sitting right, standing right, breathing right. (And that I might even believe, because the mostly-sedentary American life I live is entirely unnatural and unhealthy on the human body, especially those of us with cis female anatomies.)

From any side might come fatalism, a proclamation of the profound brokenness of my body. But I don’t feel broken (except my tailbone, sometimes); I don’t want to feel broken. I don’t want to be warned off having another baby (eventually! not now!); I don’t want to be told I am too far gone to be helpable, fixable. I am, in short, afraid — afraid I will be told I am broken, afraid that I will discover it to be true.

My brain’s a little whacked too.

But if I am ever going to do anything that has a prayer of helping (have I mentioned the coccyx pain? Truly, it is a pain in my ass), I have to be able to talk about it. And so I am.

Today, it all falls down: my uterine lining, for the 20th time since the Boychick’s birth. My pelvic organs, constantly, always, starting well before his birth. My walls and defenses and impenetrable, impossible silences: now, and forever more.

10 Comments | Posted on 23 November 2009 by Arwyn | Category: Body | Tags: anatomy, Health, Menstruation, pregnancy

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International Transgender Day of Remembrance 2009

November 20 is the International Transgender Day of Remembrance:

The Transgender Day of Remembrance serves several purposes. It raises public awareness of hate crimes against transgender people, an action that current media doesn’t perform. Day of Remembrance publicly mourns and honors the lives of our brothers and sisters who might otherwise be forgotten. Through the vigil, we express love and respect for our people in the face of national indifference and hatred. Day of Remembrance reminds non-transgender people that we are their sons, daughters, parents, friends and lovers. Day of Remembrance gives our allies a chance to step forward with us and stand in vigil, memorializing those of us who’ve died by anti-transgender violence.

[Quote from Remembering Our Dead]

I hesitated to write this post, because I have no desire to appropriate TDOR — as has been done before, by well-off, acceptably-queer, white cis folk like me, and will likely continue to be done. (The “white” is especially important to point out here, because of the way race intersects with transphobia to devalue certain lives even more than others: trans women of color are most at risk of being mourned on this day.)

Nor do I wish to detract from the vigil, nor dishonor the dead.

Note: Read that list, please. They all had names, even if we do not know them. They all had lives, even if we never hear about them. And they were all murdered, even if we never bother to find their killers.

But neither do I wish to contribute to a trope that leads to cis people, like me, associating only doom and gloom and death and despair to trans persons lives. I know how much it pisses me off to have only one day a year — and have it be entirely “Woe is the marginalized person, for their life is miserable!” That’s what we risk when outsiders come in, and take over, and use our public mourning to show just how good we are, see, we care, look at how miserable those people are, how horrible, let us pity mourn them — until the day is over, the vigil ended, and we walk away, proud of another box we can tick off on our Good Ally(TM) checklist.

That isn’t what this day is supposed to be. It is by trans persons, for trans persons, as they take a moment to honor and remember their fallen, as a community. We cis persons are called to witness, to hold the space, and to remember that what we do contributed to their deaths.

We are called to take that lesson not so that we beat ourselves up with it, but so that we can change, so that these murders stop happening.

We are called to walk into the rest of the year with this knowledge: that what we do, and fail to do, every day, creates the environment in which this can happen.

And perhaps most important, we are called to walk into the rest of the year with the duty of celebrating trans lives: with remembering the dead, yes, and remembering those who live.

*******************

Posts for the dead, by the living:

3 Comments | Posted on 20 November 2009 by Arwyn | Category: Body, Kyriarchy | Tags: cis privilege, Gender, Privilege, trans, violence against women

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The M-word: in which I indulge in angst, whining, and more angst

So, for some reason, some o’y'all seem to like my writing. Or what I have to say. Or something about this blogging thing I do, anyway. (Don’t ask me why, I dunno either; I’m still trying to figure it out.)

And, this blog, for some reason, is getting a teeny, tiny bit Out There. Which is, y’know, cool.

For example: Didja know an article from here was published in a real print rag? So, it wasn’t mine, it was a guest post. Not that I’m bitter or anything. (OK, maybe a little bitter, although I love the lucky author to death and don’t begrudge her the byline at all.) (OK, maybe a little begrudge.) (That they put in my old web address after I asked them three times to use the new one? That I might be bitter about.)

And I’ve been contacted for an interview so someone else can get paid to write a book.

And got a very weird offer I’m not sure what to do with yet, that might actually give me money — if I just agree to sell my soul, my dignity, and my values. (It is, alas, totally legal.)

Completely unrelated (except in my crazy brain), over in the Twitterverse there’s a convo (Twits don’t have conversations, that’s too many characters) on #blogmoney going on, and over in another part of the intarwebz I’m eyeing ad rings with simultaneous lust and revulsion.

And an already-published friend is writing her third novel, and damn it’s good.

And Kelly Diels is prostituting her cleavage for money, and I’m convinced she’s going to start succeeding any damn day now. (With those assets, how could she not?) (I meant her writing.)

And, y’know, all of that has me angsting just a HUGE FUCKING TON little, over what I do, and what to do next, and, uh, can I get paid for this too? Because that would be nice.

Because while capitalism sucks non-consensual donkey dong, having none in a capitalistic state sucks syphilitic donkey dong. (I totally stole that line.)

Of course, I don’t have none.

I have lots, comparatively. (And lots of debt, but who’s counting?) (Other than our creditors.)

Which the white cis heterosexual male I live with earns while I sit on my arse and Tweet and write and angst and neglect, mostly benignly, our Boychick.

He also gets Social Security credits. I do not.

(To those following along at home in less sadistic countries, Social Security works like this: when you earn money, the federal government decides that you are a worthwhile human being, deserving in your old age of support and food and a roof and occasionally even some heat if the gas prices aren’t too high. The more money you earn over your life, thereby allowing you to possibly put away a little for retirement and the less, consequently, you need to rely on outside assistance, the more they decide you’re worth. If you don’t earn enough money, or don’t earn money often enough, perhaps because you’re busy taking care of said old people and sharing your roof and your food and your heat with them, or new people, ditto, or are unable to work for pay but unable to prove you can’t work, or maybe both (hi!), then your Social is Screwed rather than Secured, and the government decides you are worth bubkis and you get exactly that.

Unless you marry money, or a man who can earn it. Which is a whole ‘nother can of botulistic cow feces.)

Where was I? Oh right, angst and greed.

Ooo, greed. The sin that conservative Christians and liberal social justice activists have in common. Supposedly, anyway.

The thing is, I’d kinda like to get paid for my writing. Sometime. Eventually. A bit, at least.

Partly, it’s because while I hate capitalism, I kinda like money, and the things, like food and cars that don’t burn oil, that money can get one in a capitalistic system. Partly, it’s because money is the scorekeeper in our society, and I’m broken enough to want to beg for some of that recognition. Partly, it’s because of aforementioned debt, and the desire to be rid of its tarry grip. Partly, it’s because I’m a bit squicked out by the work women do — and this woman in particular does — once again being unpaid, unacknowledged, unofficial, and unsupported by society at large. Even if said society is FUBARed.

Partly, it’s because a friend just bought a house, and I am not above envy. Green looks good on me.

Green would look good in my wallet, too.

But, how to actually do something about that? I can’t help but feel that ads are tacky capitalistic and kyriarchal, I don’t do reviews, sponsored or otherwise, and submitting to print publications takes a fuckload of spoons and practice and rejection slips. Also contacts and networking and skills and know-how and determination and lots of other things I lack in abundance. (I lack them, but I lack them a lot. Surely that counts for something?)

This is what I think about at 2am, while my lover and my child sleep, after I come home from yet another unrewarding and emotionally stressful (don’t ask) Pathology class so I can maybe one day make a bit of money performing personal yet professional services for rich folk who can afford it and don’t need it near as bad as those who can’t.

Here’s a start: I’ve made an official Raising My Boychick Wish List at the evil Amazon (see? compromising values for compensation), which anyone who cares to can click through to order me whatever I put on there.

I haven’t put anything on it.

This sums me up.