Unlucky Strikes

Some years ago, a bored and pervy economist discovered a direct correlation between the national economy and women’s hemlines. The worse one is, the shorter the other gets. Unless you have the global awareness of a squirrel, you know that if things get much worse here in Spain, women will simply wear belts and call it good. (As it is, the only thing that differentiates prostitute from fashionista is location, location, location.)

A lot of factors contribute to the current conditions. A bloated and inefficient government, a huge boom in consumer debt following the adoption of the Euro, the practice of hiring someone for life and retaining them despite poor performance and job redundancy, and Germany’s de facto takeover of Europe all play their part in the farce we call “La Crisis.” Each new cut to wages or social services prompts angry citizenry to take to the streets in huelgas, or strikes.

From the outside, a strike and a festival don’t look or sound much different. Both feature flags and a variety of musical instruments (drums, whistles, those obnoxious horns used at soccer games, etc). Throngs of people jam up major thoroughfares like cholesterol in a fat man’s arteries. Generally, they’re both a big fat headache for anyone not participating directly.

There are a few important differences, however. Strikes have a decided lack of alcohol. Being furious at the government requires no liquid courage, apparently. Sober strikers means there’s less chance of being urinated on while walking down the sidewalk. (Having been the recipient of one such golden shower at a festival last year, this is a fact I sincerely appreciate.) Mostly the protestors wave signs and shout stuff in iambic tetrameter while marching around. Banks get graffitied, people get footsore, and everyone goes home. Nothing changes and the whole thing happens again in another month when Presidente Rajoy announces more cuts.

True to her Spanish roots, Anya got into the spirit of things and went on strike, too. Hers, however, is a nursing strike. She’s decided that, despite a trimmed frenulum, an abundance of milk, and countless man hours put into making this breastfeeding thing work, she’ll have a bottle, thank you very much. When I attempt to make her nurse, she screams and pushes away, acting like it’s a knife and not a nipple I’m trying to put in her mouth. If I so much as try to cradle her sideways, she goes into total meltdown. Even my trusty plastic pasties don’t seem to make a difference.

Since my local lactation consultant is me, myself, and the internet, I’ve been doing some research about nursing strikes. The highlights are these: 

Don’t assume she’ll nurse when she’s hungry because she won’t. (Gee, that’s reassuring.)

Try a different nursing position. (No dice.)

Try cutting dairy out of your diet. (Considering she drinks breast milk from a bottle just fine, I don’t think this is it. Besides, if it wasn’t for all the yogurt I eat, I’d probably get brittle bones and shatter into a million tiny pieces. Osteoporosis runs, falls, and breaks a hip in my family.)

Check with your pediatrician to see if there’s something physically amiss, like reflux, ear infection, mouth sores, etc. (The doctor says that medically she’s fine and suggests we just bottle feed her from here on out. Apparently, the staff doesn’t read the pro-breastfeeding literature they have plastered all over the waiting room.)

Finally, wait until she’s asleep and then breastfeed her. (This actually works. The only time I can get her latched and eating is when she wakes up in the middle of the night. However, if I change her diaper before I feed her, the deal is off. She’s awake enough to realize what I’m doing and starts screaming again.)

As frustrating as this all is, I suppose it could be worse.

She could be crying in iambic tetrameter