Silver Fox

For years I've toyed with the idea of dying my hair.

I've never done it.

Part of the reason I haven't up to now is, I've been pregnant or nursing for much of the past decade during which my hair has progressed from straight brown black to having a skunk stripe to having a white swath across the top. Whenever I've mentioned the idea, my husband has said something sweet like, "I've loved you in all your seasons." or "You've earned every one of those." which has melted me into laughing at my momentary vanity.

However, the amount of grey alarmed me when I viewed a recent photo of myself. As if to seal the deal, my six year old in all her tactful joy said to me, "Mommy, your hair looks really old."

I bought a loving care Clariol can that day.

Opening it in the bathroom, I looked at the happy woman on the box. I worried I would stain the sink. I worried I would stain my clothes. I worried I would look like one of those lego people with a cap of solid black hair on my head. I read the directions. I was losing my nerve. I reread the directions. More nerve lost. Now I taught my kids always to read the instructions three times before starting anything new, so I followed my own advice. The can remained unopened in my medicine cabinet.

But a friend has offered (she does this all the time), to teach me the secret ways of hair color on Tuesday.

I figure, if I screw up, I'll look good at least for Halloween.

Mad Cow Disease

The last bastion of purists have hunkered down for the purpose of converting strict adherance to their way of being in a single field of study that the world at least considers respectable. I am speaking exclusively of those well meaning souls known as Lactation specialists.

Now I know that breast milk is natural, normal, easy, convenient, healthy and provides bonuses that formula does not have. There's no chance of metal contamination from some yahoo in a foriegn country who spilled a box of nails while packaging insta powder. There's no need to make sure you won't run out. As long as you bathe regularly, there's no sterilization issues to speak of. Having nursed all of my prior children, it's not like I failed to subscribe to the theory of nursing or needed convincing to try it.

But Downs Syndrome children have trouble nursing and with my son's poor heart condition, he needs to conserve his energy for growing and not coaxing milk to come to him. He needed the food to be easy and plentiful and require little effort. Even my OBGYN, Pediatrition and Cardiologist had agreed, a mixed approach was fine but food was most important. I explained to the La Leche League woman providing "support" that while I hoped to nurse, I also recognized my son's condition required a bit of flexibility on my part.

She shook her her head and smiled very nicely. "You know, there are studies out there that indicate that babies who are held but who are also nursed, and mostly because they are NURSED, are less retarded."

Even in my percoset stupor, I recognized a vague threat. The implication was clear. If I failed to supply my breasts to the cause, I would be lowering my son's IQ. I would be causing further handicapping complications for my son.

"Are you unaware that if he doesn't get enough calories, his heart will fail?" Thinking as logical people do that this might make her...reconsider her words.

"Babies who breastfeed are healthier."
"Not if they lose weight and fail to thrive."

"If the mother is committed to breast feeding, the baby thrives." Her benevolent smile told me her thoughts, this poor tired recooperating woman must not be thinking clearly. "Breast is always best." she soothed.

"Even if my pediatrition and the specialists have said otherwise?"

"The doctors want what is controllable and convenient."
"The doctors want my son to live."

"God made cow milk for a calf, breast milk for a baby." She insisted.

"I drink cow milk."
"That's different."
"How?"
"You're an adult."
"What?"

Squelching an urge to moo at her, I tried reason once more."I never had breast milk. I was in an ICU the first few months of my life."

"You proably would have been there less if your mother had been able to nurse you."

At this point, I began to wonder if a gentle rap on side the head would be legally defensible...or at least plausible to a jury of my peers.

"Thank you." I got up, grabbed my IV pole so I could indicate I was escorting her out of the room.

She touched my arm in what was supposed to be a reassuring gesture, but felt vaguely like a "I'm explaining it one more time for you so you can say the right thing Chicago style" grip.
"Are you going to nurse?"

I opened the door and patted her hand.
"I'm going to do what's best for my son. Whatever that means."

She stood in the threshold, holding on to the door, trying to make the pitch one last time. "Meaning, you're not going to breast feed exclusively?"

I smiled. "Well, you see, I was premature and drank formula for the first year of my life so we'll chuck all bad decisions I make as a Mom up to that."

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