Camping With Donor Milk, Wild Animals, and Northern Lights

We just came back from a gorgeous camping trip in Nopiming Provincial Park, and yes, we managed to use donor milk the entire time. On previous trips, we simply brought along our portable freezer - don't laugh! We ARE Milk Junkies after all and we did indeed buy this freezer last summer ONLY for transporting breast milk. We justified it with the good ol' "this thing will come in soooooo handy in a few years' time when we are camping in the front country and want to bring burgers along with us..." Yeah.

Anyway, we usually plug in the freezer at our campsite and that is that. Done. This time, I desperately wanted to explore Nopiming, a more northern, more wild park, and... one that doesn't have any electrical sites. I miss terribly the remote canoe trips we used to take prior to having our little one. We carried in all our food and gear and completely left civilization for up to two weeks at a time. Instead, staying in the front country of Nopiming, immediately after Labour Day and the departure of the great crowds, seemed like the next best option.

Aurora Borealis and moonrise at our campsite.

Following our great success with dry ice in Toronto and Nova Scotia, we decided to repeat the trick for our camping adventure. We unfortunately forgot that the dry ice store would be closed on Labour Day. Yet again, we ended up relying on a stranger's helping hand to make our trip possible. Ian called up the Nopiming Lodge, fortunately located around the corner from our campground, and made a deal to allow us to store our donor milk there.

When we arrived, the lodge owner took the milk from us and was about to put it into one cooler when suddenly he thought better of it and stuck it in the other. Curious, Ian took a peek in cooler #1 the next day when he went to retrieve some milk: it was being used to freeze a freshly caught and still very aromatic bear head and hide. Yep, I'd say better not to store our baby's milk alongside a bloody hunting trophy. That would have been a little too much wilderness for me.

I'm glad it all worked out, but I'm kind of looking forward, in a bitter-sweet sort of way, to next summer when we will most probably no longer be using donor milk. It is extraordinary that we have been doing this for nearly 17 months - 17 months of incredible generosity from donors and many other folks, as well as 17 months of constantly sorting out the weird and wonderful logistics of milk sharing.

Sleep Deprivation Dreams

Last night involved tons of waking to nurse baby, so this morning my partner took him to the playground while I slept a bit. I had a dream that I was studying linguistics in university, and my bed was literally at the front desk of the department office. I kept being woken up by people talking to the secretary. It happened over and over again until I was furious. I put out a jar with a sign that said, "Each time you wake me up, please donate one dollar to the university's fund for building a new dormitory." Of course, I woke in real life from this dream to the sound of my baby crying and my partner saying, "I think he wants to nurse!"

My Queer Conversation With a Ninety-Year-Old

A conversation I had today reminded me yet again that age is not necessarily a good predictor of open-mindedness and compassion.

First, a bit of background. I met Luanne, a ninety-year-old woman, through a friend. This summer I am planting and maintaining Luanne's large vegetable garden and flower beds along with another friend of mine, Ana.

Today it was just me and my little boy, Jacob, weeding at the garden. Luanne opened her back door to say hello. I chatted with her for a few minutes and we both enjoyed watching Jacob crawling on the lawn. And then came the question: "Who is the baby's mother? Is it Ana?"

"No, he's my baby. Ana is my friend."

'"But who is his mother?"

"Ummm, well, my partner... well, we're a gay couple." I blurted it out and then looked at her, waiting.

"Gaaaaaaay...?"

"Yes."

"You mean, your wife is a man?"

"Yessss..." Close enough.

"So where did you get the baby from?"

I'd really been hoping she'd stop at gay. I couldn't bring myself to lie to her either though. "That's a bit complicated." I hesitated.

"Oh, I hope you don't mind my asking. It's not too personal, is it?"

"I hope you don't mind hearing the answer." I paused and looked at her. She looked back inquisitively. Ok, fine. "I'm transgender. I was born female but I transitioned to male. Have you heard of that before Luanne?"

"Well, on TV, yes, I suppose so."

"Ok, so, I took testosterone to transition, and had a chest surgery. But when my partner and I got together we decided we'd really like to have a family. We thought about adopting, but realized it might take a very long time. So, I talked to my doctors about it and asked if it would be safe for me to carry a child [I always emphasize the doctor/safety part of the story, especially around potential skeptics], and they said to stop taking the testosterone and it should be fine. I got pregnant, and had the baby. He's our biological child."

"Oh, wow, I've never heard of such a thing."

"It's a bit unusual, isn't it?"

"Well, as long as you have a baby, that's what's important."

I left the breastfeeding and milk sharing discussion for another time... And then we went back to talking about the geraniums. She didn't want white ones after all because they apparently turn brown when they get rained on. Too bad Ana probably already bought them this morning, following yesterday's instructions.

If Luanne, at ninety, born in 1922, can get all this, and simply be happy that we have a baby (and that we've pulled out an awful lot of grass and dandelions the last few days), what is anybody else's excuse?

Newborn Bliss All Over Again

A few days ago I enjoyed a most powerful deja vu with a teeny tiny baby. I can still see her little mouth gaping wide open searching for my nipple as she tries again and again to latch. Her hands make tight fists that press into my chest, pushing herself away from my nipple, and away from what she wants so desperately - the food source. Not having much, if any, breast tissue to accommodate her limbs, I gently move her arms out of the way to bring her lips in contact with my nipple. In hunger, she puts her finger in her mouth at the same time as my nipple. Again, I move her hand out of the way. Absolutely everything in her life is about wanting to suckle and swallow.

Lila doesn't care that I'm transgender - she just wants to breastfeed.

And then I feel her finally grab hold and not let go. The pull of her lips is strong and determined, yet precarious. I don't dare move my arms for fear of unlatching her. I hear her rhythmic, satisfied gulping and know that I am the centre of her universe. Nothing can distract her from her desire to breastfeed. She doesn't know or care that I'm a transgender guy using a supplemental nursing system and donated breast milk. I share in her bliss.

Then my back starts to ache from the stiffness of my pose. I look at the clock and see that forty-five minutes have gone by and she's only taken an ounce or two. Those newborns take forever to eat! She sleeps for a brief few minutes and then is ready to nurse yet again. Now I remember the sheer exhaustion of the early weeks. Still, my day spent with this seven-week-old was a gift.

My friend had called us around 10am that morning to say that she was feeling very ill. Ian picked her up and brought her to the hospital. He took her infant, Lila, and toddler, Samuel, to our home where I was entertaining a number of friends and their babies. It turned out that the poor sick mom had appendicitis and would spend that night and the following day in the hospital.

First we tried to bottlefeed our tiny charge, but she choked and gagged on the fast-flowing milk. Then my friend Emily attempted to finger-feed her with an SNS tube - sometimes it worked, other times the milk wouldn't flow at all.

In the afternoon, Ian walked Lila over to the hospital to be nursed by her mother in the emergency waiting room. He suggested that I could breastfed Lila the next time around, and my friend agreed. So, a few hours later, after a failed attempt at finger-feeding, I did what was easiest for everyone and nursed the babe.

Breastfeeding Lila was beautiful and joyful, and also brought up some anxiety for me. I have so little breast tissue that latching on a baby takes tremendous focus and determination from both parties involved. Today I am suddenly in awe of myself for having done it, day in, day out, and never, ever giving in to a single bottle feeding when Jacob was little. And I got a good reminder this week of WHY I did it: even with all my specific challenges, nursing was obviously a happier and more comforting experience to Lila, who surely must have been missing her mother.

My own Jacob is almost a year old, and I breastfeed him with ease. He crawls into my lap, pulls my usually open, button-down shirt out of the way, and latches on by himself whenever he wants. If he seems tired, or upset, or out of sorts, or even if I'm just sick of running after him and badly want to sit down for a few minutes, I get out the SNS and nurse him. I wish that more people knew about the pleasures of nursing an older baby or toddler. Gone is all that intensity and effort of feeding a newborn, and what is left, for us anyway, is a comforting, easy relationship.

After my friend received her diagnosis and a surgery was planned for later in the evening, her husband came over to pick up their kids. Lila was full and fast asleep, and Samuel, the toddler, grinned from ear to ear at the sight of his Dad. We were thanked profusely, but in all honesty I just about feel guilty: I got to nurse a precious, heart-melting seven-week-old baby and hang around with her sweet, surprisingly helpful toddling brother while their Mom was dealing with a ton of pain. I'm pretty sure I got the long end of the stick on that one.