It's funny. Not two days ago I was congratulating myself on my ability to harmoniously live with my family. I might be able to survive the 2 years with my sanity intact, I thought. I am soooo naïve.

We had a bit of a scene at dinner. My mom worked all night and slept all day; she woke at 7 in a rattlesnake mood. As she, the Boy & myself ate an improvised dinner, she got more and more worked up as every little thing heaped itself upon her fury. We went from item to item until suddenly I'm being told to wean Blake cold turkey from night nursings. I was also told that I "needed" to feel him solid food at regular times in the day (the implication being that I wasn't feeding my child, while the reality is that I do little else).

I've been reading my big book o' Sears tonight, and I've come to the conclusion that I should stay my current course. Apparently it's not unusual for breastfed babies to still get 80% of their nutrition from breastmilk at one year of age, and even though I'll be working pretty hard to bring that number down in Blake's case, it's reassuring to know that he can thrive even though he's not eating three square meals a day.

Man, infant feeding is so screwed up. No matter what you do, it's the wrong thing. If I like to breastfeed and encourage others to do the same, then I'm a lactation nazi. If I use formula, I'm lazy and ungrateful for the gift of life, plus I'm condemning him to a life of obesity and heart disease. If I introduce solids too late, I'm promoting my own agenda instead of the baby's and he'll never learn how to eat with the family. If I introduce solids too early, I'm pushing him toward independence too fast and he'll ruin his digestive tract and go into anaphylactic shock. If I give him carrots, I'm encouraging a sweet tooth that will lead to an eating disorder. If I give him cereal, I'm filling him with empty carbs. If I give him name brand non-organic baby food, I'm supporting Satan Himself.

At least what I'm doing feels right. And hey – at least I'm stubborn as a mule. I'd hate to be pushed into something contrary to my instincts by a doctor or mother-in-law. If, of course, it's possible to push me. I'm more likely to pack my new bathingsuit and fly to Tahiti than I am to give in when my heels are really dug into the earth.

But I think I'm shoring up my opinion for no good reason. We must always remember the first rule of family conflict: it's almost never about the actual issue. This would explain why my brother gets away with twice the irresponsible antisocial shit that nails me to the wall. He gets to treat the house like a hotel, pay half the rent, and keep antisocial hours. I, on the other hand, am monitored when I leave the house and lectured at great length on my parenting abilities. (Irony.) What a frigging swamp.

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- Rocketbride's adventure of 7/17/2004 09:39:00 p.m.