A tribute to feline loyalty

Vomitcat is the most maligned member of our family. It should be pointed out right now, to avoid sullying his good name, that Vomitcat has never vomited on anyone, nor even in Miss A’s presence. I’m vomiting on everything; Miss A once vomited on Vomitcat, a breastmilk ricotta that he dutifully licked up, but Vomitcat himself is incredibly well-mannered, a feline of unsurpassed chivalry.

He slept on Miss A’s bed every night until he made the mistake that would end that privilege forever – he made hacking noises of hairball origin in the dead of night.  After plaintive wails from A, her bedding was examined microscopically, revealing that *gasp* - they were completely clean! Thus, the mystery of the disappearing cat vomit began.

The photo above is from happier times. This is a cat who was dribbled on, thrown up on, had his ears tweaked, his whiskers played with, his fur stroked the wrong way – and not once did his claws come out. In cruel testament to the fact that you’re only as good as your last actions – or rather, known for your most memorable f-ck up – Miss A has insisted on sleeping with her door closed for about the last two years. As the header photo demonstrates though, no matter how despised you are, you should never, ever give up.

Got milk?

My daughter weaned at 3 1/2 years. In retrospect, it was a stressful time for us and she’d developed a lazy latch which hurt me, so I probably discouraged nursing more than it being a true case of self-weaning. If I’d corrected the latch, we may have kept on nursing.

Here’s the thing – she’s 7 now and still remembers nursing. She’s asked to nurse over the last couple of years and I’ve had to explain there’s nothing left. I’ve just found out I’m pregnant again, to my fiance – not her father, who I split from when she was 18 months old. She’s asked if she can nurse when I have milk again. I have no problem with it – honestly, she may read at a 12-year-old level, she may fly by herself and make her own lunches, but if she wants to nurse she’s still my baby and it seems like the most natural thing in the world to me. My fiance, a first time dad, feels similarly. He was the first one to ask “I wonder if A will want to nurse when the baby gets here?”

The problem here is, I can see it being met with a LOT of hostility if it gets back to her father and specifically her stepmother. Apparently she was rebuked for calling the large spiked rubber ball she was playing with on the deck a ‘nipple ball’ – they’ve always been ‘nipple balls’ to her since she suckled on one as a hungry baby. Nipples aren’t shameful body parts to us. But, it’s because of this that I didn’t give her a clear answer.

For me, I see no logical grounds other than what I’ve described to deny her. Anthropologist Katherine Dettwyler puts the natural age of human weaning at somewhere between 4.5 and 7 years, but really, no one knows. It doesn’t suddenly become ‘wrong’, that’s for sure. The reasons not to are all based on dated ideas of what is ‘proper’, ideas which I’ve long since shrugged off when it comes to other issues. It could also a) help me with engorgement and building a good supply and b) soothe jealousy issues with a child who’s never had to deal with a sibling before. Chances are, she’d try it once, latch badly with her mouthful of (some) adult teeth and give up.

When she was a newborn, I once ignorantly expressed my horror at breastfeeding a school-aged child when someone talked of nursing a five-year-old. Having no comprehension of what toddler nursing was like, I imagined Mom having to come to school and lift her shirt in front of all Little Johnny’s friends. I now know that’s BS – I’ve nursed a toddler on a bed in the ER, wearing work boots and sporting a broken hand. Nursing’s flexible. I thought people who would nurse a six-year-old must be crazy hippies – then I met some in the flesh. One was an intelligent and educated artist who wore decidedly sensible and non-tie-dyed clothing; the other was conservative by nature and owned a couple of businesses.

So – what do I say to my daughter? I’ve been non-committal so far. I have tried to explain, gently, that while I feel that there can never be anything wrong with a mother feeding her baby (mine still plies me with chocolate brownies, after all) that not everyone will agree with that – that some people will think that nursing a 7-year-old is plain wrong. I also don’t want to blur the lines of good secret and bad if we decide to let her, but advise discretion.

So, this is it.

R is worried that I’m going to die in childbirth. I’m worried, far more rationally I feel, that I’m going to purge my stomach contents while driving on the highway and die in a spectacular, vomitous fireball.

Walking on the wharf was a laugh a minute.

R, nostalgically: This is where it all began…
{First date, licking fast-melting ice creams}
Me: Yes, and you got sticky white liquid where it didn’t belong that time, too.

{In front of the navy ships}
R: That one’s got a slightly smaller gun, but it’s all wrapped up in protection.
Me, snidely: Much like yours should have been…
{Followed by plenty of reassurance as to the size of his ‘gun‘}

There’s no escaping it, though. He slips up, I throw up. Equality has its limitations.