Work

I keep a doll in my office to demonstrate breastfeeding. I keep it behind my desk because it’s really there for demo, not for children to play with. But that doesn’t stop children from wanting to play with it.

Generally, I let the children play.

One child, however, had a serious question: “Where’s this baby’s bottle?”

I told her that this baby didn’t have a bottle, that this baby was breastfed.

At first, mom tried to find something else in my office to take the place of a bottle. Could her daughter use the banana from the puzzle as the baby’s bottle?

She tried, but the banana just didn’t quite work.

Mommy realized that she’d just about missed a teachable moment.

“That baby doesn’t use a bottle. She gets milk from her mommy.”

Child’s eyes got wide – her mind was blown.

Milk from mommy? What a novel thought.

Small steps towards normalizing normal.

Occasionally, I get really curious about my clients. Not a professional curiosity, a personal curiosity.

Like when one of my clients told me she makes her own herbal tea.

I knew that I should be asking her about what herbs they contain for professional reasons, so I can ensure that what she’s drinking is safe for her and baby. But what I really wanted to know was what herbs she uses…for personal reasons.

I’m a huge fan of herbal tea (actually tisanes and not tea at all). I’d love to make my own blends. But I just haven’t gotten around to it.

So when she said “I make my own herbal tea”, I said “Really? Tell me what you use.”

“The tea bag from the natural foods store and water.”

*Facepalm*

I really will make my own one of these days. I will not be using the tea bag from the natural foods store.

Sometimes I don’t know what compels me to ask how “You and baby” are doing at a postpartum visit (instead of my standard “How is baby doing” and later “how are YOU doing?”)

Then a woman shares her struggles with having to quit breastfeeding due to baby not growing and stooling appropriately. And she tells me she doesn’t have an appetite. And that she cries all the time.

I have the opportunity to empathize with her, to agree that it’s hard. I tell her about postpartum depression, how it’s normal to feel this way when so much is going on in her life. I tell her she can get help.

I encourage her to take care of herself–to make a list of things she can have people do when they ask how they can help. I give her suggestions for her list: watch the older child for an afternoon, hold the baby while I sleep, go grocery shopping, wash and cut some vegetables for me, wash and fold the laundry, just listen to me tell you how *I* am.

I encourage her to loosen her standards for household activities–to let herself be okay with laundry that isn’t put away or a toilet that isn’t scrubbed. I encourage her to get some sleep when baby’s sleeping, or even to just lie down and rest. I tell her it’s okay if things stay undone for a while–this is just a season.

I encourage her to talk to a doctor about postpartum depression. I tell her about how he might be able to recommend counseling or medications that can make a big difference.

I give her ideas to help her get adequate nutrition, even when she doesn’t feel like cooking or eating.

And I realize that I know what compelled me–No, WHO compelled me–to ask this woman how *she* was doing first.

Because God knew this woman needed someone to listen and understand. Because God knew this woman needed someone to tell her that she’s normal, she’s okay. Because God knew this woman needed someone to give her hope that this dark time won’t last forever.

As a dietitian, I have a few hard measures, but the majority of the data I collect and analyze comes from self-report.

I can weigh and measure a child. I can poke their finger to determine what their hemoglobin is. I can observe whether the child is drinking out of a bottle in my office–and sometimes whether they’re drinking water, milk, or juice.

But the majority of my information comes from parents themselves.

Before they come to visit me, they have to fill out a diet questionnaire that attempts to ascertain health and dietary patterns. Once they’re in my office, I interview the parents for additional information.

I rarely have any way of corroborating whether the story the parents are telling me is true or not.

I *do* happen to know that at least some of my client’s parents lie to me though.

Probably the most frequent example of a client lying is when the health interview reads that “no one in the household smokes”–but the diet questionnaire I’m reviewing reeks of smoke so badly I’m having coughing fits in my office trying to prep for the interview.

Then, there are the lies that are evident to anyone who is thinking.

How many hours a day does your child spend actively playing? the questionnaire asks.

“18 hours/day,” a parent replies.

If so, he’s getting far too little sleep, I want to point out.

But my favorite lies of all are the kind that the child contradicts.

Like the time when I had a picture-perfect diet questionnaire in front of me. According to the questionnaire, my client drinks 2 cups of whole milk (great, since he’s one), 4 oz of diluted 100% fruit juice, and several glasses of water in a day.

I asked mom to describe what her son eats in a typical day–and then I probed deeper. “And what does he usually drink?” I asked.

Big brother (age 6) answered, “Mmm…pop, Koolaid, Gatorade, juice…”

Mom was quick to cover, insisting that she only gave her one year old SPRITE, not the BAD kinds of soda with CAFFEINE in them. And Gatorade is only if they’re outside. And…

Yeah.

In other words, you lied.

Liar, liar, pants on FI-AR.

Then there’s the ones you wish had a little shame and would at least try to be embarrassed about SOMETHING. But that’s a WHOLE ‘nother story.

I don’t think my client’s intend to steal from me.

They’re in a hurry, the kids are screaming–they don’t notice that one of the kids has a toy up his sleeve.

Little Jenny has her bucket of personal toys. Mom checked to make sure she’s carrying the bucket out, but didn’t notice that Little Jenny had stashed all my sorting shapes inside.

I don’t make too big a deal of it.

Life happens.

I take the sorting lid off the bucket and now I have my own bucket, devoid of shapes to sort.

Likewise, I don’t intend to steal from my clients.

They’re in a hurry, the kids are screaming, I’ve got ten minutes to chart on all four before we close down the office–I didn’t notice that Little Johnny left behind his toy car.

By the time I find the toy the next morning when I’m tidying up my office before new clients, I can’t say for certain whose toy it was–and the client is long gone.

I don’t make too big a deal of it.

Life happens.

I collect the detritus in a corner of my desk.

So far, I have

• 3 matchbox cars
• 1 teething toy
• 1 flip phone without a back
• 1 gray and pink burp cloth

They nestle carefully in the shape sorting lid from my bucket, reminding me that sometimes you lose things and sometimes you gain things–but, generally, life happens.

Snow doesn’t usually accumulate in Wichita.

A snowstorm means snow flies, people get in accidents, and the streets are clear within an hour.

At least, that’s the way it usually is.

This week, though, Wichita experienced a Nebraska-quality snowstorm.

We got several inches Wednesday afternoon–which meant most of our appointments were no-shows. I e-mailed my family telling them of the snowstorm around four–and then kicked myself when I walked out of the office at five to find the streets clear.

I left my boots at Daniel’s house that evening. After all, the streets and the skies were clear as of two Thursday morning.

When I walked up the stairs Thursday morning, ready for work, the woman I live with asked me if I was sure I still had to work.

I was a bit confused until I looked out the door. In the six hours since I’d last looked, we’d gotten six inches.

Nena was kind enough to help me clear my car (meaning that I only soaked my stockings up to my knees, but left my clothes themselves relatively dry). I slipped and slid and spun my tires a bit on the way out the driveway.

I got to my training a half-hour late–but I did make it, as did one other participant. I couldn’t tell whether my eye doctor was still open based on the message on their phone, so I geared up to go at the appropriate time, only to find that I was STUCK.

It took about 20 minutes to get myself free–digging out my tires, placing a carpet underneath them, rocking forward and then back before finally getting enough traction to move a couple of feet. Digging myself out again, repositioning the carpet, etc.

Once free, I drove across town to find the eye doctor closed. Big surprise there.

It turned out no one could get into our clinic. Since it’s attached to a school and the schools had a snow day, we had no one to unlock the door.

Rather than returning to the Main clinic for the second half of the day, I went to Daniel’s and took a nap (and then made supper, did laundry, helped Daniel with some data entry for a project, organized cleaning supplies, and cleaned the toilet.)

Over the afternoon, we got a third snowfall–another three or four inches maybe. Daniel cleared my car before I went home–and thankfully, we haven’t gotten anymore.

Nevertheless, it is cold and wet today. We actually have accumulation. The streets are piled with snow that is only just beginning to be packed down by slowly emerging drivers.

And, a curious young client looked carefully at my pantyhose this morning before proclaiming, “You can’t wear THAT! It’s SNOWY outside.”