On swaddling

I just read an article on swaddling. And the only reaction I could utter at first was... "Really?" "Did she really say that?". I didn't even know that there was a controversy about it until today. To me, it always seemed one of those very American things that I will never embrace, and it had never occurred to me that it could pose any risks, as some seem to be suggesting now. The article defends swaddling from its newly minted detractors. One of the points she makes for swaddling is that not swaddling could increase the cases of infant abuse by parents. Once more, really? Apparently in the many countries that don't swaddle their babies (Spain among them), we must abuse our babies as a result. I was speechless. Because, of course, we don't.
The first time I set ayes on a receiving blanket was during my first son's baby shower. I had never seen one, and I didn't have a clue on what to do with it. Once I was told, I added them to the baby's layette, and I didn't think about it again until we came home from the hospital,which only happened during an eight day stay in the NICU. Where he wasn't swaddled. We had a wonderful postpartum doula who guided us through the mysteries of caring for a newborn in the US. Which were many. She taught us how to swaddle him, and she would do it. But it never made any sense to me. I have read/heard all the rationale behind it, but after nine months squeezed in a tight uterus, what I would want to do is stretch as much as I could. If I were a baby, I would be mad as hell if someone wanted to curb my newly discovered freedom of movement. My boys seemed to agree, and none of them liked it a bit or aboded by it when someone swaddled them.
We don't swaddle babies in Spain. The idea of having them half naked and only covered in a blanket in the hospital is preposterous there. They are born, they get a bath, and are put on a PJ, or any other clothing device of their parents liking. In which they can move arms and legs, and stretch as much as they want.
If you have parents on the brink of a nervous breakdown, maybe what you should offer them is support, not a binding device. Support from their families, support from their friends and the community. Americans are quick to offer practical help when one has a baby. but what I craved the most when my babies were born was company. Human warmth. Adults visiting me. Having people around. There are few experiences as isolating as motherhood. You spend the first weeks at home, with a baby who, in the best case, nurses eight times a day, in the worst screams for hours. I have had both kinds. But nothing compares to the loneliness of those first months, particularly if you are in a city with weather as wonderful as the one we enjoy in Chicago. Most days, I was alone until my husband got home from work. That was at least ten hours a day. Swaddling wouldn't have made a difference for me. Having my family or my Spanish friends closer would have.
And I know that I would have complained in Spain too, where people visit all the time, invade your hospital room when the only thing you want to do is sleepforheavenssake, they show up at your home and expect you to look good, well dressed, and ready to entertain, and hover around giving unwanted advice and stealing the baby from your arms so you can fix something to eat. But I would rather offer that to new moms, than a substitute for human arms, for human warmth. In this one, I side with the Spanish way of doing things.

The new Pope

The Catholic church just elected a new Pope. His name will be Francis I, he is Argentinian, and he looks like a good person. And his election is instilling some mixed feelings on me.
I was raised Catholic. As a kid, I was an altar girl in my little village. I took my First Communion in a beautiful dress, and have fond memories of preparing for it with Don Donato, my village's priest at that time. I went to a nun's school. I even spent two years in a nun's boarding school. At age 13 I stopped being Catholic, I lost faith and swore that I would never send my kids to a Catholic school. I had seen enough of the contradictions within the Catholic church.
When I got married, we had a civil wedding at my parents' garden. In a bout of inconsistency, I baptised my kids at my father's urge. He had been very sick, and it was important for him, so we obliged. In a second bout of inconsistency, when it came the time to pick a school for little L, we chose to send him to a Catholic one. It is academically sound, small, and the closest I have seen here to European schools, so I was sold rather quickly. Also, the Catholic church is very effective when it comes to management, be it registries of any kind or academic institutions. But I had never had doubts about my lack of faith.
Until today. Today I find myself absolutely hooked to CNN's coverage of the new Pope's election. And I feel excited. There is a new guy in Rome, and he looks like a really good and approachable person, and he speaks my native language, and he seems to be the living proof that the Catholic church is willing to move forward.
And this Sunday, for the first time in twenty years, I may walk into a church on my own will, without anyone getting married, without baptism or funeral, without my son pulling my hand so he can see St Nicholas.
And I may listen, and I may give them a second chance.

America's problem with pain

It is not the first time this thought crosses my mind, but this time I am writing about it. This country has a problem with pain. I guess it lies in both the patients and the medical community, but it's there, and it's partly responsible for all those prescription drug addictions. The ease with which one is offered strong pain medications baffles me every single time.
Last Thursday I sprained my ankle while playing with Little L in his soccer class (lesson learned: never play soccer in your Hunter boots). It hurt, but since it was the left foot, and thanks to the fact that my lovely friend M. was visiting I was able to drive myself, plus M. plus the kids to a doctors office.
Of course, the first question I got was "Can you rate your pain?". I did, but I also told the nurse that if they don't get a point of comparison, it should tell them nothing. I can give them a number, but that number has no meaning unless they also ask me what is the worst pain I have ever experienced. In my case, that would be twenty hours of Pitocin labor contractions without an epidural. Which is a lot.
Once they were done with the X-Rays, and they had a diagnosis, the doctor came to talk to me. Without me asking for any pain medication, she handed me a prescription for Vicodin. I was horrified, since I am still nursing, and told her so while I refused the prescription. She seemed surprised. I certainly was, at the ease with which a doctor, without me asking for any, gave me such a strong painkiller. Am I in pain? If I move my foot it hurts at hell. But I want to feel that pain, because it will help me avoid further injury to my foot. At the end of the day, pain is part of the defense system that our body has. It alerts about problems. It's our wake up call.
But doctors in this country don't seem to agree.
Maybe I should have taken that prescription, after all. If Dr. House liked it that much, why shouldn't I?