Farm Excitement #74: The Age Old Question

...Why did the geese walk in the middle of the road?

Herdsman Excitement #20: Tummy Time Fail

When tummy time fails...

Formula Is Not A Gateway Drug

Ooh! A baby! How old is he?
Six weeks.
Ooh! He's so little! How much does he weigh?
Six pounds, ten ounces.
Oh. How much did he weigh when he was born?
Six pounds, ten ounces.
Oh.

This conversation happened a few weeks ago in the grocery store just after one of many weight checks The Herdsman has had in his short twelve weeks of life. Because yes, The Herdsman took six weeks to get back to his birth weight after dropping down to five pounds, nine ounces two days after we left the hospital. For those who are unaware of a typical baby's first few weeks of life, babies do lose weight after they are born...they just aren't supposed to lose 16% of their body weight. And they typically gain back the few ounces they lose by their two week appointment.

The Herdsman did not get this memo and did not follow protocol. While so many things about The Herdsman have been going wonderfully, this has not been one of them.

To prevent you all from worrying, at The Herdsman's latest appointment he weighed seven pounds, eleven ounces, gaining over a pound in three weeks. He also graduated to a once a month weight check schedule (a vast improvement from the every-other-day schedule he had the first week).

While this post is most likely crossing my oversharing threshold, I'm writing it because I think there is this myth out there that breast feeding is the end-all-be-all of motherhood and the first 12 months of life.

It's what is best.
It's what the baby needs.
It's what you as a mother are put on this earth to do.

That's a whole lotta pressure, people! And for some, like me, it isn't always so easy.

And yes, I get the irony.

I am married to a dairy farmer.

And yes, at one point he did say to me, "I didn't marry you for your milk." (For those who might be appalled at this comment that compares me to a cow, please know I was laughing at this point.)

My doctor very diplomatically said to me six weeks ago that she still finds it baffling/amazing/crazy that some women struggle with this part of motherhood and other women could feed triplets. She also looked me straight in the eye and told me that formula is not a bad thing.

Translation: Formula Is Not A Gateway Drug.

Because yes, this was where my head had been for six weeks. I had a container of formula hidden out of sight in my cupboard; The Farmer insisted I purchase it around Day Six. Admittedly, I was ashamed it was in my house. It wasn't even open, but I knew it was there. And it was poison, right? It was the gateway for all things unnatural. It meant I was failing.

Well, in some regards that last sentence is true. I was failing on this one front. But it took me six weeks to be okay with the fact that this failure wasn't commentary on any other part of my life. It just was fact...I needed to do something else because this wasn't working.

Oh, I'd tried everything...a syringe, supplemental bottles of pumped milk, long feedings, short back-to-back feedings, I've increased my protein and liquid intakes, I've added dietary supplements...and that green container of formula was the last resort.

The first day I only allowed The Farmer to mix a "halfies" bottle before bedtime - my "real" milk mixed with the "fake" stuff.

The Herdsman slept six hours that first night.

And yes, while that fact was a celebration, there was also guilt in the result...

He was hungry.
I should have done this weeks ago.

In those first few days - OK, weeks, including at one point today - I've had many moments of guilt and shame. When people have asked how things were going, I'd sheepishly admit that I'd slipped The Herdsman a bit of formula in with his breastmilk. The thoughts running through my head were/are still revolving around the idea that by supplementing this into his diet I've introduced him to some sort of gateway drug, and next thing I know he'll be mainlining red dye #5, high fructose corn syrup, and MSG.

Amazingly, two women - both in the women's health field - immediately exclaimed, "Oh! Me too! It was a savior!"

Why don't the baby books tell you this?!?!?! Instead what you take away from the 1,782 articles and books you read is that formula is a gateway drug and your six-week old will be forever impacted by the dried milk product you laced his bottle and your precious breastmilk with.

So here we are...twelve weeks old today...six weeks after I admitted "failure"...and The Herdsman has kinda chubby cheeks. His skin is not quite falling off his thighs. I almost can't see his rib cage. And just this morning I retired the first newborn outfit he's grown out of.

He is thriving.

So to all the mothers out there that have read one too many articles...formula is not a gateway drug. You may be surprised by how many of us have that can hiding in our cupboards.

I'm going to put mine on the counter. Without guilt.

My Co-Pilot

Yesterday was the last day of cutting silage! Woo hoo! Silage typically takes about 14 days...but weather, mechanical troubles, and a myriad of other things can drag that 14 days out longer. Much much longer. 

This year? 13 days of cutting and a day of clean-up. As of noon today, the silage is tarped and ready to be cooked. Let the fermentation process begin!

Per usual, towards the end The Farmer saves out a bit of the cut hay for the littler calves. Because it is such small quantities, we use the pickup and throw it in the bed. 

I get to drive.

And this year, I had a co-pilot!

He looks a bit worried about the task at hand. What's with the furrowed brow??!!?!?!!

Then again, I would be worried too if my daddy tossed hay on my head through the open window.

Oh, and here's the obligatory Farmer's backside photo. 

Minus the a**less chaps.

Dang. 

Those will come later in the summer.

No, really. I wanted photos of the beautiful skies. The Farmer was just the bonus shot. 

Herdsman Excitement #58: Bath Time

When you may have kinda sorta gotten a split-second tiny half-smile after a non-screaming bath.

Little Man...I'm onto you...

Nani and The Herdsman taking a bath a few weeks ago

Farmer Quote #23: Tractor Parking

"You know it's the start of summer when I park on the lawn."

Cow Parades

Spring and summer afternoons on the farm include bringing the cows in from the field. It has been sunny around the farm recently, so The Herdsman and I decided we would venture out recently and help with the herding duties. Really, we just wanted to go for a walk and say "hi" to some cows. They are cute, aren't they?

It also helps that the cute handsome Farmer also participates in the herding process.

As we are still counting the Herdsman's age in weeks, he and I stayed behind the gate and really just watched the cow parade and enjoyed the scenery.

We also were the object of curiosity.

Despite it being a beautiful day and we were able to say hello to all our cow friends up close and personal (see above photo), The Herdsman slept through his duties once again.

And so while The Herdsman slept, The Farmer and I watched the cow parade. 

The Farmer insisted on taking a few photos, and I think these next three are payback for all my a**less chaps comments. 

Yeah, this one especially...definitely payback for the multiple a**less chaps posts.

Now you may notice it is a bit muddy in the cow parade lane.

I normally wear my boots for herding duties, but I decided on this day it would be OK to wear my ankle slip-on boots. 

This was a poor decision on my part. 

These ankle boots were purchased when I was eight months pregnant as I was having tough time getting my boots on. We purchased the ankle version one size too big so I could just slip them on without much difficulty.

However, now these ankle boots feel like clown shoes. They are just a tad too big and my ankles, well, they are no longer swollen. As such they are a bit too easy to slip on - and off.

Case in point...

Yes, that is my footprint in the mud after my right clown boot got stuck in the mud.

And this is my bare sock-foot after my left foot followed suit and stepped right out of the clown boots.

This reminded me of the first time I helped bring the cows in with The Farmer. I was nervous, hoping to pass this very important test of farm life. I was wearing appropriate foot attire - knee-high rubber boots - but as we walked through a huge mud bog near the front gate (there's no way around it), my boot sank...up to mid-calf.

I was stuck.

While we have no photos of the incident, imagine me standing there in a huge vat of mud with one foot buried a good 12 inches in the sloppy, sticky, gooey tar-like substance. And since this was my first time herding the cows I had a lot to prove I was up to the task. Instead I was motionless, teetering on the brink of falling head-first into this pile of muck. And just to be clear, it's not all mud when you are on a dairy farm.

And despite my impending self-inflicted mud-pie face all I could think was "The hat!" Because yes, I had accidentally worn one of The Farmer's good hats out into the field. Who knew that amongst his 834 baseball caps he had good ones and bad ones? But yes, he does! I had forgotten my hat that trip and thus naively picked one out of The Farmer's closet. And yes, I picked a cute one. If I'm going to wear a hat and try to impress The Farmer with my rookie herding skills I'm gonna look cute! However, it turns out this particular cute hat was The Farmer's new/nice/going-to-town hat. 

Oops.

When The Farmer saw said hat on my head he gave a stern warning..."Just don't get it dirty."

So as The Farmer pulled me out of the mud bog - yes, I needed rescuing and the fairy-tale-damsel-in-distress sort of rescuing is not really be-still-my-heart-inducing, but rather borders on mortification - all I could think was how to prevent the hat from impending mud-bog doom. I was sure I would not be invited back to the farm should a minute speck of brown goo appear on the hat upon post-herding inspection. Farming is messy business but there is no excuse for  ruining the going-to-town hat.

Fortunately, the cute/new/nice/going-to-town hat survived intact. My boot was rescued from the mud. I was invited back. 

And The Farmer bought me my own hat.