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Oh it’s late! I completely forgot to drop you a line and here I am, just before bedtime, frozen chocolate piece in hand. So I’ll make this quick. Gisele Bundchen is making a lot of noise, isn’t she? Breastfeeding should be mandatory (as in legally enforced!). Because why would you give a “chemical” to a small, vulnerable baby. Well, Gisele, let me explain something to you. I know you mean well, but I think you probably should have thought a little before you went public. You’ve offended me. Deeply.
I love breast milk. Not to drink myself, per se, but I think it is the perfect food for a baby. It is Mother Nature’s gift to little ones. It is perfectly formulated to be digested by a human baby and to give them not only nutrition but important antibodies. Plus Mom and baby get a special bond. And there’s always a snack on hand should a little person get hungry.
That said, there are times when a mother cannot breastfeed. Simply cannot. I didn’t always believe this. And then I became a mother without actually being pregnant. Being the deep believer that I am, I went to the lengths of actually inducing breast milk. Yes, you heard me. I tricked my body into making milk for my children. I’ll spare you the details but suffice to say that it is not a trick for the faint of heart. I read all kinds of articles about the beauty of “adoptive nursing” and took my herbs and bought my pump and got myself one of those little pouches that straps to your shoulder and has a tube taped to your nipple to supplement a hungry infant will encouraging bonding. Do you understand yet how committed I was to this project?
The reality, however, was that it didn’t work as well as advertised. Yes, my children both got some breast milk for a period of time. But it wasn’t all sunshine, lollipops and roses. Formula isn’t poison. And if a mother can’t breastfeed, whether by circumstance or choice, it’s okay. In a perfect world, it would be different. But it doesn’t always work that way. So, yes Gisele, thank you for raising awareness about the value of breastfeeding. But please don’t make me feel bad for circumstances that were out of my control. Looking at my kids, I’m pretty sure that they haven’t suffered any irreparable damage. Well, at least not from their formula.
Dr. Lara Zibners, Aug 05, 2010
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I’m back! We’ve survived. What a wonderful trip we had. So many exciting discoveries: Eva’s second tooth, Eva waves bye-bye, Zoe’s first swimming pool. The food, though, that was the best part. It was a culinary adventure for children and adults alike. (Me to Gernot: you do realize that just because something is julienned, doesn’t make it a vegetable? Google “Wurstsalat” and you’ll understand). Last night I got home and whipped up a spelt salad with roasted vegetables and some lean pork loin, probably in an attempt to coax my body out of its pretzel and sausage coma. And yes, I do keep spelt in the cupboard. Which makes what I’m about to say all the more horrifying.
Eva slept through the Lufthansa sandwich and was starving by the time we made it through customs and baggage. As was Zoe. I had two small containers of baby food, not enough for both of them. (I’m trying to wean myself off the convenience of it) The plan was to sit and order a proper dinner for Eva in a café. Some nice pasta and vegetables. But I’d only brought enough diapers to last until morning. And our plane was late. And the stores in Germany close at some ridiculously early hour. Faced with a decision between nutrition and Pampers, well, there really wasn’t much of a choice, was there?
I ran into the airport shop and grabbed a packet of Swiss cheese and the only other thing nearing any level of appropriateness that I could find: a packaged ham sandwich. With a mixture of fascination and horror, I watched my darling daughter shovel her way through almost half an adult sandwich. She barely weighs 16 pounds. It didn’t seem right. But Eva loved it, even eating the egg yolks (I stole the whites for myself), which she normally hates. Then again, these probably weren’t real eggs from real chickens. I couldn’t bring myself to read the ingredients, but I guarantee the words “free range” wouldn’t have been on there.
So what’s the point of my confession? I am torn between immense pride (my little baby ate a ham sandwich!) and utter horror (what was that white stuff gluing it all together?) I try to provide my children with healthy, nutritious options whenever I can. Which means that 95% of what they eat is good for them. But life is too short to stress about the other 5%, isn’t it? If your kid is hungry, feed it. And if it wasn’t a perfect meal, get over it.
Dr. Lara Zibners, Aug 03, 2010
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I’m on vacation this weekend but I’m trying something my webmaster clued me into called “dated entry” or some such nonsense. In other words, I wrote this before I left but I’ve cleverly mastered it so it arrives to you today, while I’m sitting in a wi-fi free zone. Ha!
So I thought I would send you a prediction of what I’ve done this weekend and we’ll just check whether I was right when I’ve returned. This list is dedicated to my dear reader, Allison, who we all remember desperately wants her twins to have a bit of “lightly sweetened whipped cream” on their first birthday. I hope this gives a bit of inspiration to those of us who believe in moderation and “sometimes treats.”
Friday: Eva likely chewed on a Lufthansa cheese sandwich while Zoe vomited on the safety information sheet. By evening, Zoe will have thrown up in the hotel lobby and Eva will have grabbed a lettuce heart for a nibble. Both kids go down in their hotel cribs, wake every 2 hours and justify our corner room.
Saturday: Eva eats chopped fruit, yogurt and a croissant. Zoe vomits. Then she eats some fruit and yogurt, a bit of baby cereal, formula and a rice cake. Eva takes advantage of the personal time to find her way into a Nutella container. Both kids go for a swim in the indoor pool and spend the rest of their day searching for power outlets around the grounds.
Sunday: All 4 of us share a bowl of noodles and crawl back to bed. Eva probably eats a hotel plant somewhere along the way.
Monday: Fruit, whipped cream, Nutella, toast and yogurt. A bit of formula, some pretzels (salt brushed off!), and sausage. A last swim and then back to lunch, where Eva squeals her way into a piece of Black Forest Cake (because when in Rome…or the Black Forest to be precise), Zoe gets chocolate sprinkles on her ice cream and Mommy thinks seriously about a Heineken.
Ah. Vacation.
Dr. Lara Zibners, Aug 01, 2010
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As many of you know, I write for the Kids’ Health column in Parenting Magazine. It’s something I really enjoy, especially when the questions are relevant to what my own kids are doing at the time. It’s always good to have spent a few moments researching a topic before it happens to you. Which is why I’m so happy that I’d already answered, “What do I do if my kid insists on eating sand?”
Eva had her first trip to the sandbox this week. Well, Zoe too, but she just lay there and laughed. It was Eva who really appreciated what a new and exciting adventure this was. She spent a lot of time just flapping her arms and laughing to herself, with the occasional high-pitched squeal thrown in. I had been so afraid of sand in the mouth, in the eyes, (let’s be honest: in my house) that I’d put this off. But we really had a great time. Of course, I was watching out of the corner of my eye for a fistful of dirty neighborhood park sand heading towards her mouth but it wasn’t happening. So I stopped paying such close attention. That’s always the first step towards disaster, isn’t it?
I had my hands full with Zoe, trying to get vomit-soaked sand off her face when I saw the hand heading toward Eva’s mouth. I was stuck between two really disgusting situations and I just wasn’t fast enough. Within seconds her face registered first surprise, then shock, then disgust. Spitting and snorting and coughing. I wiped what I could away and grabbed her Tommee Tippee (thank goodness I had her water with us or she was about to have her first sip of Orangina light). A few minutes later, she was fine and playing happily. And I had no choice but to accept that my child has just eaten sand. From an outdoor, public playground. Complete with sheep that roam the grounds. While sand, in and of itself, isn’t harmful to swallow in small bits, it’s the other stuff, like cat pee and bird poo that I’m not too happy about. But what can you do? If you have a sandbox at home, keep it covered when it’s not in use. Try to discourage the behavior if possible. Of course, that’s easier said than done. So I guess the real answer is: get over it. What’s more harmful? A life without a sandbox or a bit of dirt?
Dr. Lara Zibners, Jul 29, 2010
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I know. My husband is named Gernot. But I’m in love with another man. A man called Henry. He lives on the ground floor of my house, unobtrusively squatting in a hall closet. He always has a smile for me, although his very long nose can be somewhat distracting. At least he keeps his bits and pieces neatly tucked away when I don’t need him. I love a self-retracting power cord. Yes, Henry is my vacuum.
As you know, I’m a big fan of getting kids to experiment with all kinds of tastes and textures. We serve a “buffet” at lunchtime here since one day pasta is a hit, the next day it’s a gross insult. I’ve got one kid who will eat an entire container of this spinach stuff (that honestly smells exactly like this henna product I used on my hair in high school) and another who won’t allow anything in her mouth unless she can see exactly what it is. Eva’s hand usually has to go into a new dish and she’ll taste a bit before she’ll take it from me off a spoon. Perhaps this is just a learned habit after my attempts to hide salmon under applesauce. Regardless, we’ve come to accept that meal times are rather messy. Half the time I find it easiest to just strip them down before they eat. Or let them eat outside, where their crumbs attract the pigeons which also makes for tableside entertainment.
Anyway, our current big favorite is these soft rusk cookies. I don’t know what rusk is but it’s mighty tasty. They come in packs of 2, which means 1 for each child, 2 for Mommy. Rather than melting, which is a sticky disaster, these just crumble into little bits. Which makes it fun and enjoyable for them, fabulously messy for me. But that’s okay. Eating is learning at any age. Until their coordination is a bit better, it’s not going to be pretty. That’s why I have a washing machine. And why I had to buy Henry a boyfriend (yes, I think that’s what he prefers. He has made a career out of housework) for the upstairs. One hoover for the stroller and their room, one for the dining and living room floor. Gotta save my back.
Dr. Lara Zibners, Jul 27, 2010
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