How to wean a child.


Megan woke up with the sleepy dirt in her eyes that felt like mortar between two bricks. That’s how heavy her eyelashes felt. Her son William had cried all night. Megan and her husband, Jake, had decided that it was time to wean the boy. He didn’t like that idea. He had learned to talk recently and the incessant cry for “Mak Mak” was heart-breaking. Jake tried to be supportive, but he only ended up snoring through the whole night. He had no idea.

The plan was a simple one if he cried for milk, they would give it to him, just not breast-milk. They had tried giving him bottles, they had tried to give him cookies, but the poor child had refused everything that came his way.


It wasn’t the first pregnancy. The first one wasn’t as bad as this one. She had been sick the whole time, but it wasn’t until this second one that she had to go to the emergency room. They weren’t expecting it. At least her husband wasn’t. It was winter. A cold deadly winter. Nothing was engaged in the winter. The trees and even he wind was detached and stale. The snow had stopped, perhaps it was even too cold for snow. And Megan was inside trying not to wake up.

Last night she had tried, for the third night in a row, to wean her child. It was taking him longer than she liked. Even the pregnancy was taking longer than she liked. The sickness weighed on her like poverty and she felt her clothes getting looser. She was supporting three souls at once—an unborn child, an unweaned child and herself. And in her womb a child the size of a small lemon was growing, all the cells were multiplying and a whole human was being built by her famished body. She had been throwing up at least once every morning and almost every afternoon. Sleep was hardly a help since her son had grown extra needy.


Within her womb all sorts of engagement were taking place. A placenta was growing and the umbilical cord was fitting a fully functioning pathway between her and the unborn infant. And the baby was becoming disconnected because he had to be weaned and even she was becoming detached from the whole situation.


I have to write a whole different idea. This one is not working for this audience.


heal the half to unite the whole.

Winter

The stale frigid molecules hung stale in the air above the ice encrusted snow. Human skin couldn’t feel the sunlight in the slightest. Frost covered everything that the snow didn’t and every parking lot in town had mounds of moldering black snow. Every car was dirty and the roads looked like if they got any colder they would crumble away and reveal a gaping hole where the earth itself had pulled away from the frozen and terrible sky—as if the ozone had shattered from cold empty space and was now pressing upon the frozen crust of this hemisphere like water pouring out of a shattered fish tank. The edge of the universe is not out there in the fringe. No the edge of the universe is the soul of every person. That’s the precipice for annihilation. Out there on the edges of space, that’s the beginning, within each of us is the end. The soul is inseparably connected to his environment.

January 3, 2012

I’m pregnant. Jake and I went to the store to pick up a pregnancy test. I thought it would cheer him up. Even my mom asked me after Christmas if he was okay. We left Will at my mother’s house while we went. I tried to talk with him, and even tried to kiss him, but he didn’t want to. We got home and took the test and found out that we were pregnant. I’m so excited, and even scared. The first pregnancy with Will was hard, but it was definitely worth it. I can’t wait to find out if it is a boy or a girl.

January 25, 2012

I’ve been so sick. I woke up this morning and threw up in the toilet until there was nothing left to give.


At death we disengage, but in life ...

Behind her house there was a juvenile tree with a bird feeder hanging off the eastern-most branch. The most regular visitors of that branch were the red-breasted robins, which hadn’t visited all winter long, until this late February morning. It was the first morning that sunlight could be felt—the first day that the wave-particle duality of light out-weighed the nearly motionless frigid molecules that were starting to get stale above the melting snow. One red-breasted robin, a pale-breasted female landed on the branch and plucked at the seedless birdfeeder, as if she were begging for food for her yet to be born children.

And just west of the bird was a window with hardley any light shining through it—the light was so diffused by the clouds, tree branches and blinds. A pregnant mother lay tucked under sheet and blanket with her baby boy snuggled close to her chest. She had found out yesterday that she would be having a girl, and her husband had left for work—a twelve-hour a day manufacturing job that was an hour away on bike—before the sun even thought about turning the sky a lighter blue.

Megan, the mother, stirred and wished that she weren’t awake. Just like last morning, and every morning over the past few months, she went through a series of despair, anxiety and depression. The fear of waking up hungry was the first to pass through her mind. It meant, as it was voiding in her stomach now, a sickness that was  unequivocally demanding. It sat in her like an unclean spirit that had suffered with bulimia while it was alive, and now that it was dead its need to vomit was only relieved through the body of another. And unquenchable addiction. Had Megan any control over the matter she would have left this unconcious illness in the toilet the first time she had vommitted.

Next, with despair sitting morbidly in her stomach, the anxiety would mix in her mind and she would wonder how she would ever have the strength to continue feeding three bodies—herself, a nursing baby boy, and a growing fetal girl. She wondered how she could sneak away from the infant who had tried to attach so many times to her breast last night, and wondered how she would choose something to eat in the kitchen that she hadn’t already vomitted in the past week. The options were lean, and she had altogether abandoned breakfast foods, which she had thrown up every single morning for the past two weeks.

Unfortunately her husband’s job did not provide the insurance for any medicine. He was still trying to pay off the bills from the ER visit they made last week when Megan couldn’t keep anything down for two whole days. They finally decided that the boy had to be weaned. Last night was one of the worst nights. David, the little boy, had biten the nipples enough to mix blood into the milk he was drinking. Carl had returned home to find his son asleep from exhuastion and his wife sobbing from near starvation.

“Hey,” he said. He looked into Megan’s puffy red eyes.

“I’m just so worried, Carl.”

“I know... I wish I could... I‘m sorry. What else do you want me to do?”

She just closed her eyes and turned her head a couple centimeters away.

“Megan. Did you eat anything?”

She shook her head.

“What can I get you?”

“I just need food.”

“Alright, but what can I get you?”

“I don’t know.”

He left her there with the exhausted child and went to the freezer to warm himself up a frozen burrito. He came back and tried to kiss her, but she pushed him away and apologized after saying that he had bad breath. David snorted and rolled over and they both held their breath. He wiggled his arm on his nose and then started to cry. He hadn’t eaten anything either. He cried for the next three hours. Everyone only got three hours of sleep that night. At some point in the night she had given up and let the child suckle into the wee hours of the morning.

She slowly backed her chest away from the baby in hopes that he would stay asleep. His mouth was suctioned, but his lips were stationary. Her breast came away with a slight pop and after putting her bra back into place crawled into the kitchen to pull a frozen burrito out and nuke it in the microwave.

She finally ate the burrito. And then the baby woke up. He was starving as well so she tried everything to get him to eat. He took some warm milk and they sat on the couch staring out the window. The mother decided to go for a walk with the baby.

Bad idea mom morning. . . Oh Sam there's the sun! Lets go for a walk. I get the stroller ready. All bundled. Go outside down the road. Sun goes away. Freeszing wind. Mom is throwing up from exercise. Sam is screaming cause its nap time. I end up carrying Sam home and dragging the stroller behind. Throwing up. Sweating. Crying baby. Finally home. Sam won't nurse. He just wants me to look at his eyes and show me he is crying and mad. Oh dear. He's finally sleeping. Wait. Crying and angry cause mom why won't you turn the milk on? Open up the the milk! How do I tell him it's gone? Bye bye milk. Ok good finally sleeping. Super rough morning. Finn though cause I was feeling good initially and thought "lets go for a walk!"

Oh yeah and the first throw up I kept it all in. My mouth and with each step I swallowed some down. Then I decided that was gross. Who cares if sis Hendersen just drove by and saw me leave my breakfast in the road?! Right.



At death we disengage, but in life ...

Behind her house there was a juvenile tree with a bird feeder hanging off the eastern-most branch. The most regular visitors of that branch were the red-breasted robins, which hadn’t visited all winter long, until this late February morning. It was the first morning that sunlight could be felt—the first day that the wave-particle duality of light out-weighed the nearly motionless frigid molecules that were starting to get stale above the melting snow. One red-breasted robin, a pale-breasted female landed on the branch and plucked at the seedless birdfeeder, as if she were begging for food for her yet to be born children.

And just west of the bird was a window with hardley any light shining through it—the light was so diffused by the clouds, tree branches and blinds. A pregnant mother lay tucked under sheet and blanket with her baby boy snuggled close to her chest. She had found out yesterday that she would be having a girl, and her husband had left for work—a twelve-hour a day manufacturing job that was an hour away on bike—before the sun even thought about turning the sky a lighter blue.

Megan, the mother, stirred and wished that she weren’t awake. Just like last morning, and every morning over the past few months, she went through a series of despair, anxiety and depression. The fear of waking up hungry was the first to pass through her mind. It meant, as it was voiding in her stomach now, a sickness that was  unequivocally demanding. It sat in her like an unclean spirit that had suffered with bulimia while it was alive, and now that it was dead its need to vomit was only relieved through the body of another. And unquenchable addiction. Had Megan any control over the matter she would have left this unconcious illness in the toilet the first time she had vommitted.

Next, with despair sitting morbidly in her stomach, the anxiety would mix in her mind and she would wonder how she would ever have the strength to continue feeding three bodies—herself, a nursing baby boy, and a growing fetal girl. She wondered how she could sneak away from the infant who had tried to attach so many times to her breast last night, and wondered how she would choose something to eat in the kitchen that she hadn’t already vomitted in the past week. The options were lean, and she had altogether abandoned breakfast foods, which she had thrown up every single morning for the past two weeks.

Unfortunately her husband’s job did not provide the insurance for any medicine. He was still trying to pay off the bills from the ER visit they made last week when Megan couldn’t keep anything down for two whole days. They finally decided that the boy had to be weaned. Last night was one of the worst nights. David, the little boy, had biten the nipples enough to mix blood into the milk he was drinking. Carl had returned home to find his son asleep from exhuastion and his wife sobbing from near starvation.

“Hey,” he said. He looked into Megan’s puffy red eyes.

“I’m just so worried, Carl.”

“I know... I wish I could... I‘m sorry. What else do you want me to do?”

She just closed her eyes and turned her head a couple centimeters away.

“Megan. Did you eat anything?”

She shook her head.

“What can I get you?”

“I just need food.”

“Alright, but what can I get you?”

“I don’t know.”

He left her there with the exhausted child and went to the freezer to warm himself up a frozen burrito. He came back and tried to kiss her, but she pushed him away and apologized after saying that he had bad breath. David snorted and rolled over and they both held their breath. He wiggled his arm on his nose and then started to cry. He hadn’t eaten anything either. He cried for the next three hours. Everyone only got three hours of sleep that night.


sex trafficking

poverty

education

vicious and virtuous cycle

how transformative a little help can be

bird feeder


She is forced to wean her child

That's it. She has to choose between the child in her womb and the child in her arms.

Story: pregnant mother weaning a child

Emblem: spring and the red breasted robin

Idea: life is engagement. There are levels of life.

The boy disengaging with from the mother

The girl engaging into her womb

The husband remaining engaged with work

The spring engaging

The woman engaging and disengaging with it all until she finally engages with a bird feeder that is emblematic of her engagement with the divine self or the divine god or the divine nature of nothingness.

The boy is resurrection by disengaging from the mother and re-engaging with something else

The father is death by disengaging, but he does so wisely

The baby is birth by engaging

And the mother is life—the thing to be engaged with.

Describe the mother.

Describe her morning sickness in the morning.

Reflect back to the unholy night before that morning.



In the morning when I wake up I usually open my eyes and then close then and say dang it and I am hungry and I feel overwhelmed and mostly just overwhelmed a whole day ahead of me I need to take care of sam I need to eat food I haven’t eaten in so long. usually when I wake up there’s this big overwhelming feeling. And I feel sick.

Megan was expecting a little girl in August. She would normally open her eyes in the morning and then close them again and wish that it wasn’t morning and that her son hadn’t cried all night and that her husband wasn’t gone at work so early and that he wasn’t going to be home so late and ... well she just closed her eyes and wished that she were asleep again. Everyday there was a magnificent weight that weighed on her, like an ominous cloud that felt like a tornado that was about to wrench through her stomach and send her running to the toilet so she wouldn’t have to scrub her vomit out of the carpet like she had to last week on Tuesday.

Last night her son had wailed and cried for three hours because he wanted to nurse at her soft and cozy breast, but between his biting like a rabbit and her areola’s growing tender from the extra (check) feminine hormones circulating through her body–making every possible preparation for the baby that was now the size of a lemon in her womb, and was making her stomach as sour as if that lemon were in her stomach—between these two things she couldn’t stand it. And neither could he. The milk was changing so much. It’s hard for a mother to sustain three bodies at once. Of all the nutrients that entered her blood stream, she imagined that she was getting nearly none of the portion—at least that is what she hoped was happening.

When she finally opened her eyes she hoped that she could make it to the kitchen and toast a peice of white bread before she had to cough it all up in the sink like she had last night after dinner. Her husband had brought, sometime after 10, home a salad and some soups from a little shop that he stopped at on his way home. He had been working later at the office. They had refused to drop their son off at the daycare, and it was a miracle that he hadn’t fallen down the stairs and punctured his skull. The little boy was getting his fair share of cartoons and television.


If it weren’t winter she would take her son on a walk around the block.Perhaps more than thirty kilometers away from Boupha, far outside her sinking hut, was a lotus flower growing out of the mire in an undisturbed part of Cambodia. The pestal (check) was still closed and encapsulated, and in the many millenia of the earth not a single foot of man had ever trod at that particular lattitude and longitude where that flower bloomed. Many had come close, and some had even considered, in recent times, many of the cousins of that particular lily (check).

Boupha in the morning rose and coughed out her front door to stop the wretching that haunted her stomach everyday. Not long after the birth of her son, she became pregnant with another and was struggling to provide the nutrients for three bodies. Her son was still nursing, and the milk’s sweetness had turned sour with the pregnancy of a new one. The somewhat chilly morning prompted her to light a fire to begin to cook the cup of rice that would feed all three of them. The other day she had made dinner and eaten it, but could not keep it down. Her husband yelled at her for wasting food that he had been working so hard to provide for them.She was a woman who looked best in lavendar colors. Not just that purple, but that whited green that supported the smell on the petals. Her hair was dark like the soil it all grew out of, and her eyes were like a summer sky that mixed in a powerful powerful green as if there were a tornado brewing, a tornado that would put everything back into place with the strength of graceful gentleness. The freckles were browned spots of sun, contrasting her cloudless and clear pale skin, each freckle contained enought sunlight to sustain the entire life cycle of a lavendar plant.

But this morning she awoke with the unsettling feeling of morning sickness. She wished that she rather were still asleep. She felt a heaviness that weighed in on her. But it wasn’t black or blue, but an ominous white like snow that was inside her stomach and would never melt. She was about to lose her insides. They were screaming to come out, like a prisoner who had just barely been locked inside her stomach and had all the rage and energy of a person who loved freedom more than life itself.

Had the sickness been all that afflicted her she may not have needed to wretch her stomach out at the toilet for the first ten minutes of her morning. Her eyeslids felt the weight of hours of missed sleep as her son had had a rough night of sleeping. He was still breastfeeding and the mother had been sleeping in bed with her. Her supply of milk for the child was waning as the nutrients of her poor body were being preserved for the creation of a new human life. She barely had any left for her own health and she worried in the afternoons about the baby and if she was getting enough food for herself.

Heal the Half, Unite the Whole

Talk about Women's impact

Women are half of society

Due March 15

http://kennedy.byu.edu/student/sid/hunger/#

(fill out survey on website and turn in a printed copy to 273 HRCB)

Remember the audience is a formal generic group, so you don’t want to be too crazy, but you do want to be creative. You’re expected to be understandable, but you’re expected to be creative.


Talk about Kylie as your half

her nausea and how to heal her

the whole is the whole family, the whole baby, the entirety of our family here at Allen and Breta's house.

Don't make her a victim

make it fictional, real and powerful


She was pregnant and sick as a sailor. She had thrown up so much that she had to go to the hospital and her brother was working there and she didn’t know he was in the Emergency room and she cried because she had lost all hope

and she was still losing hope

each day the sickness would loom like a storm cloud that was green and terrible and omninous and there was no way to wash away a cloud from the sky. How do you do it? washing away a cloud? On a ladder or would you do it in a plane and wave your hands out the window and try and soak in the humidity through your pores, well that is exactly how it was feeling—like she was swirling to her doom in a place and the green cloud of illness was seeping into her skin and there wasn’t any chance that she wouldn’t thrown up in the toilet three times this afternoon.

One morning she woke up and just opened her eyes. It was all that she could do. She wanted, more than anything to teach her son the alphabet, and his shapes and colors. She was home alone in a house that had leaks in it. The cold air would seep in through the window and cracks in the wall. It was in the middle of the city, on a little plot of land that still had wildflowers growing in it, perhaps the last wildflowers of the city, because no one had cultivated them for over fifty years, yet they grew all on their own.

The reb breasted robin hopped around in the backyard where here husband had last fall in october tried to prep the ground of the ensuing spring.

That fall she had fallen pregnant and as the child grew in the wintry womb she, by the first peeks of spring, was as heavy as a summer fruit tree.


She woke up when the morning had persisted long enough on her eyelids. The morning had left enough ethereal dew on her lids that they felt weighed down ridiculously. Her husband had already left for work and she looked over at the child that lay sprawled out and snoring in their bed. She burped and panicked, at the thought of wretching near the toilet. She tried not to think about it. She thought about the spring outside. She thought about the rain that would come next month. She thought about the baby, and what it would be when they found out in a couple weeks. She didn’t care if it was a boy or a girl, she just wanted to have it over with. She had said time and time again to her friends that she didn’t mind labor, but it was the sickness that came all day every day that was miserable. Yesterday, after her husband Jack had returned home late from work, and after she had sobbed while her firstborn was crying and Jack was trying to make sense of what was happening, they went to the store and bought as many freezer snacks as she wanted. Jack didn’t care that their budget was strained, he didn’t mind that he had to work even more now and even later now, he didn’t tell her that he would have to, but what would he do? Either stay home with her, without the food, without a house, without the comforts of life, or go to work so she could have the medicine, have the food, have the heat on during the frigid spring months. He was too prideful to call his parents, and he was too young to take out a loan, and he was to junior to ask for any time off, and he was too uneducated to have a job that would let him take a whole month off. It just wasn’t good timing.


Life is connectedness.

Moon phases


Pregnant Soile

Spring soil, like the mother,

is pregnant. Her belly swells

with the seeds that were left

last fall when the leaves

turned gold, orange, red and bold

and attracted

virgin soil. Together they slipt

under the snow and slept

for a whole season

And when the winter blanket was

lifted autumn had climbed back

to work in the trees and

spring was left pregnant in the soil

to laugh at her labor of growing

the full blossomed flowers

of gold, orange, red and bold

the children of autumn and spring.


I think that the best emblem to include would be the use of the red-breasted robin. And the imagistic idea would be spring. These would set up the context.