The worst thing to read are the comment sections on websites.  I love the NPR show On Point with Tom Ashbrook, and mistakenly thought the comment section there might be a little less inflammatory than some others I’ve read.  But here is a comment in reply to woman who posted about her experience with extended breastfeeding:

I’m sorry, but most mother’s children, like yours, are destined to be burger flippers and ditch diggers.  Not many can receive a scholarship from a top 5 University like I did and earn the money I can and do.  Breastfeeding after the age of 2 is ludicrous and insures that your raising losers and children who will not be independent. This is MUCH more about you than it is about them. I see no mention of their father(s) anywhere. How curious. Lol.

Ridiculous, right?  But the claims this commenter is making about independence and the idea that extended breastfeeding is evidence of the mother’s own needs are actually similar to the claims made by a pediatrician on the show.

Dr. Kelly Ross (Director of Pediatric Hospitalist Medicine at Missouri Baptist Medical Center, Medical Director at MOST (Mothers of Supertwins), Pediatrician, Pediatric Hospitalist at St. Louis Children’s Hospital, Assistant Professor in Pediatrics at Washington University School of Medicine) says in the program:

Everybody says one-hundred-percent breastfeeding until one year of age is best for mom and baby.  There is nobody that argues that fact.  Some people say up until age two is best, especially in areas of the world where there is not a safe water supply, there is not a safe food supply[…] I think where many of us have an issue, and many child psychologists have an issue is, once they get to the age, you know, three, four, five, six, somewhere along that line, at what point is it no longer a healthy relationship, but an unhealthy relationship between the mom and the child.  And so, you know, if you look at healthy development in a child, what they’re supposed to do as they become more mobile is, mom is close and they venture further away and they go away and they come back, they go away and they come back, if they are never allowed to go away, if mom never leaves them, she’s breastfeeding them until age six, then they don’t learn that gradual transition away from the mom.

Seriously?  My jaw dropped when I heard this.

I’m guessing that Dr. Ross knows that the current AAP breastfeeding guidlines state, “Academy of Pediatrics reaffirms its recommendation of exclusive breastfeeding for about 6 months, followed by continued breastfeeding as complementary foods are introduced, with continuation of breastfeeding for 1 year or longer as mutually desired by mother and infant.”

Let’s look at Dr. Ross’ claim a little more closely.

She seems to be asserting that extended breastfeeding can create a situation in which the child is “never allowed to go away” and subsequently doesn’t “learn that gradual transition away from the mom” that is key to “healthy development in a child.”  This then creates “an unhealthy relationship between the mom and the child.”  Right?  That is what she is claiming.

So much is wrong with this, I don’t even know where is best to begin!

Underlying this claim seems to be the idea that breastfeeding a six year old is like breastfeeding a newborn.  Just because you breastfeed your six year old doesn’t mean you need to be with them twenty-four hours a day, which again, seems to be a misconception Dr. Ross has.

I agree with Dr. Ross when she states that for “healthy development in a child, what they’re supposed to do as they become more mobile is, mom is close and they venture further away and they go away and they come back, they go away and they come back.”  But she then seems to make a leap to the idea that extended breastfeeding inhibits this development.  In my experience, extended breastfeeding fits right into this developmental change.  Children go away, and come back, occasionally coming back to nurse.  But, I know, my experience is anecdotal, so instead I offer this quote from an article entitled “Parental Concerns About Extended Breastfeeding in a Toddler,” from Pediatrics the Official Journal of the American Academy of Pediatrics:

I suspect that 1 major source for concern among many professionals and parents about extended breastfeeding is that it challenges our ideas about the importance of “autonomy,” an important developmental task in the 2nd and 3rd year of life. However, autonomy has many facets and forms during the toddler years. [...] Extended nursing should not be seen as a hindrance to developmental progress.

In fact, the article recognizes how the extended breastfeeding can enhance the child’s normal developmental process.

For many mothers and toddlers, the major advantage of extended breastfeeding may be found in their emotional well-being. A toddler is often competing for his or her  other’s attention in a very busy and harried life. A mother in my practice who breastfed 2 children until 2 years of age explained that she would slow down and give her  undivided attention to her child several times each day when breastfeeding. Her children knew that she always had time for those moments each day. This time was also  important to the mother for relaxing and unwinding.

I could go on, and on, but unfortunately I have to go pick up my two independent children (one from Grandpa’s house, one from preschool), both of whom nursed well into the second year.  I’ll close with this, also from the article mentioned above:

Surveys among physicians have documented that obstacles to the continuation of breastfeeding include physician apathy and misinformation.

I detest camouflage.  I don’t understand dressing your child in clothing originally created to disguise a person for the purposes of killing.  If my kids ever want to own or wear camouflage clothing I’ll tell them to talk to their grandfather, my dad, about wearing camouflage.  He wore enough of it in Vietnam for our entire family.

My sister, as has been true many times in my life, knew just what to say.  And the piece of advice she gave me then is something that I have remembered often, something I have clung to often in times of stress.  She said, “This will end, Barbara.  It won’t last forever; you can get through this.”

She was right, of course, my acid trip didn’t last forever.  Things returned to normal.  Time passed and I once again recognized the world and my place in it.

It is something I think about when I think about the pain of childbirth.  It doesn’t last forever.  Whether you’re talking about that one contraction, or that one birth, it will end.

I said before that I didn’t fear the pain of childbirth.  And that is true, and I’m fortunate to have felt that way.  But whether you fear it or not, know that it will end.  You will get through.

My amazing sister, Jesse, supporting me during Ezra's birth (as she has so many times and so many ways throughout my life.)

]]> http://www.luckypennymake.com/luckypennymake/2012/05/a-bit-about-pain-sisterhood-and-my-first-acid-trip.html/feed 8 http://www.luckypennymake.com/luckypennymake/2012/05/for-international-day-of-the-midwife-thank-you-edana.html http://www.luckypennymake.com/luckypennymake/2012/05/for-international-day-of-the-midwife-thank-you-edana.html#comments Wed, 02 May 2012 16:41:46 +0000 Barbara http://www.luckypennymake.com/?p=1370 International Day of the Midwife is this weekend, and I’m very excited about the art installment which will be part of our local Birth & Baby Fair.  As part of the festivities the BBRN is suggesting sending a thank you note to your midwife.  I thought as part of that I would post Junah’s birth story here (this was originally written for my midwife’s newsletter, so she has seen it before).  It is long, but I hope you enjoy it.

~*~

I never decided to have a homebirth because for me there was never any other option. Some of my earliest memories are of very pregnant women, wearing denim jumpers over plaid button-ups, coming to our house to receive prenatal care on our couch.  Homebirth slides are intermingled with the slides of birthday parties and Christmases in a cardboard box in my mom’s closet.  The first birth I attended was that of my cousin, but I remember very little of it, as I was not quite two years old at the time.

I am so fortunate.  In this society where birth preparation seems to begin once a positive result is achieved by peeing on a stick, my entire upbringing prepared me for giving birth.  Instead of taking to heart birth “horror” stories so commonly shared with gestating women, I was raised on stories of how birth can actually, and naturally, be.

I had a wonderful pregnancy and while I knew that labor would be painful I was never scared of the pain.  I understood that there was no way to know what giving birth would be like; I just wanted to approach it with as little resistance as possible.  I hoped to let go and give in and allow my body to do its work.  The prenatal care I received from my midwife, Edana, encouraged my natural instinct to trust my body and its abilities.  Yes, I had doubts and concerns, and in my last week, when my baby was overdue and I was grieving the loss of someone very dear to me, I worried about and wished for my baby’s birth.

On Sunday, February 18, just after dinner, I felt my first twinges of contractions.  They seemed like gas pains and so it wasn’t until eleven-thirty that night, as I was getting ready for bed and lost some of my mucous plug, that I became sure labor was starting.  I kept my knowledge secret from my husband, knowing that we both needed sleep.  And while I was nearly sure I wouldn’t get any, I wanted him to be able to.  We went to bed and there I lay until he began snoring and I could no longer comfortably stay in one position.  I took a blanket and pillow to the couch and tried to rest, but sleep was out of the question.  I was just too excited.  I ate a little, drank water and strong red raspberry leaf tea, and emailed a friend saying, “It is strange, if this is the real thing, how contractions feel.  In between them I feel perfectly normal, but during them I am very uncomfortable.  Not in a bad way, just kind of exciting WOW way.”

At three in the morning I woke Jason to tell him what was going on but told him to stay in bed.  I bathed and ate some more, then Jason got out of bed at four.  We sat on the couch, practically giggling with excitement between contractions and chanting “Yana hoeh ah who when aye” during them.  Five o’clock came and we called Edana who said she could tell by the sound of my voice that I was still in early labor and advised us to get more sleep.  Dutifully we went back to bed, knowing she was right.  Still unable to sleep, however, I got up again at six-thirty, returned to the bath and called my mom.  She was awake and had been since three.  When my dad woke up at five she said to him, “I couldn’t sleep, I thought I was channeling Barbara but I guess I was wrong.”  My contractions were just intense enough then that I didn’t like talking during them and would tell my mom, “Here’s another one, you talk.”

We had been on the phone for about ten minutes when I felt a pop and a little rush of fluid and specks of vernix floated to the surface of the bathwater.  My water had broken.  My mom told me she was on her way over and to call Edana back.  They arrived within a few minutes of each other and Edana checked me.  She was surprised to find that I was dilated to two centimeters, eighty percent effaced and at plus two station.  Two days before she had checked me and been unable to even reach my cervix, it was so high and posterior.

Soon after that my sisters, Jesse and Madalyn, arrived and my contractions became more intense and required more of my attention.  I took another bath, leaning often on the edge of the tub for support and signaling to those in the room that another contraction had begun by saying, “Stop talking.”  Silence allowed me to focus inward, relax and let my body do its work.

I was unaware of the arrivals of Donna, Megan, my cousin Sara and my mother-in-law Cyndi because my contractions started coming in groups of three, it seemed, with little time for me to prepare.  If I was talking when a contraction started, or listening to what someone was saying, the intensity of it would take me by surprise and I felt unable to reach a state of calm and focus.  I would move my head back and forth and grasp repeatedly at the air above my belly.  I kept reminding myself, aloud, “I can do this.  It will end.”  My husband tried to help me by joining in and saying, “Not much longer now.”  During a break between contractions I told him he couldn’t say that because I knew he meant not much longer until the baby was born and I was speaking of just the one contraction.  I could only think about the contraction I was dealing with not the inevitable, impeding arrival of each successive one.

It was during one such contraction that Edana tried to speak to me and I told her she couldn’t.  I was just unable to give up my focus to anyone, so she waited until the contraction passed and told me that all of my outward expressions were taking energy away from my uterus and that I should try to lessen those energy sapping actions.  I knew instinctively that she was right.  And while I couldn’t help speaking out at times, or moving in a frantic attempt find some comfort, I no longer felt that I was being gripped by some outside force, but was now part of the contraction.  Instead of attempting to work through the contraction I needed to work with the contraction, or, more precisely, I needed to allow the contraction to work on its own.  No longer an outside force that I needed to bear with until I was released, the contractions became not just part of me, but all of me.  At times I still needed to verbalize as a way of releasing but, realizing that focusing on the contraction passing, as I had before, took me to a negative place, I tried to just express the place I was within the contraction in a more positive way by saying things such as, “Goodness,” and “Wow.”

I spent sometime laboring in our guest bed since I wanted the cool feeling of the cotton sheets rather than the warmth of the flannel sheets that were on my bed.  During a break I told my mom that the sheets reminded me of being allowed to rest in her bed as a child whenever I was sick.  Later I moved to the bathroom, and from there to my bed, and back again.  I felt most comfortable on the toilet or lying on the bathroom floor.  It was there, on the cool tile floor, wrapped in a robe and a throw blanket, my head bent back and my forehead pressed against a cupboard door, that I first remember pushing.

I made no decision to push and, at first, didn’t realize that I was.  I just felt my body begin to turn inside out at its middle with such force that I had to let my mouth open to release the air from my lungs and throat.  The sound that came out frightened me a little.  It was so guttural, primal—a low, growling grunt—that, when I recalled it in those first few postpartum days, it startled me anew.

The pushing seemed to come from the top of my uterus and radiate downward, while my lungs, throat and mouth became an exhaust system for the powerful work my body was doing.  There was nothing intentional about the sounds I made then—they just had to be if I was going to relax and allow the real work of labor to proceed.

Once I was pushing I began getting breaks—much needed, blessed breaks—between contractions.  During one of these breaks I realized that everyone was getting prepared for my baby to be born on the bathroom floor.  Until that moment I had no perception of how close I was because I could be only exactly in the moment.  We all moved into the bedroom and my husband sat in the middle of the bed so I could face him and lean my weight into him during the contractions.  I couldn’t relax in that position, however, and insisted that he was going to fall off the bed if he didn’t move so his back was against the wall.  I was reassured by several voices that he was nowhere near the edge of the bed and wouldn’t fall.  So convinced was I of the power in my own body that I was unable to relax for fear that he couldn’t support the weight of all that I was.  I tried to explain, finally saying, “I know you’re not going to fall, I just need you to move.”  We resettled against the wall and soon I turned my body so I was lying curled on my side, my upper body in my husband’s lap.

I rested and pushed, rested and pushed, there in the safety and security of my own home and bed and in the arms of my husband.  No one told me when to push or how to breathe.  I just did as I had been doing and listened to my body and let go.

Then my baby began to crown.  The pain was immense.  My baby’s head would crown just before the end of a contraction and, to my relief and dismay, the head would slip back inside me.  At one point I tried pushing through the break, not wanting to lose ground.  The difference was amazing.  There was just nothing there with which to push.  No power.  No energy.  Once again I realized that I had to let my body go.

The contraction that birthed my baby’s head was no different from those that preceded it, but I suddenly felt a burning as I tore.  I cried out in startled pain for the first time, “Oww!  Oww! Oww!”  More than a minute passed and I asked what I should do, tried pushing but again, found it impossible.  I waited for the next contraction, feeling in myself and in my husband’s arms, the urgency of the final wait before we would meet our child.  Finally, at 11:39 AM, another contraction came and the pain was once again amazing as I birthed not just the shoulders of my child but also the one arm that was crossed up and over the chest, reaching it seems, to get out.  Relief, immense, wonderful relief came with the moment I felt a flutter kick as though my child was swimming out into the world.  Edana caught the baby but instantly I was up, reaching out, and, as Edana said later, taking my baby from her faster than any mother had before.  Barely had my baby touched Edana’s hands before I held the crying, lusty being against my shoulder and leaned back against my husband, and all three of us, newly born as a family, together in our own bed, cried in relief, joy and surprise.  Just seconds passed before I leaned forward, placed my baby on the bed in front of me, moved the cord out of the way and announced, “A girl!  You’re a girl!” and then, revealing the name we had kept secret since before I was even pregnant, “Junah Rae!  Her name is Junah Rae!”

Birthing is hard work.  There was a point when the thought came to me that, because I was at home, I had no other option but to keep going.  The thought was fleeting, and I did not wish, then or since, for something or someone to take over.  The experience of my daughter’s birth, in the exact way it happened, is a treasured memory for me.  And for that I am so grateful to have been raised in a family that prepared me for labor by teaching me to trust in my body and its ability to birth a child.  I was fortunate enough to find Edana—the perfect steward for my journey into motherhood—someone whose trust in me nurtured my own instincts and allowed me to labor and birth in my own way.  With her help, and that of my husband, family and other birth attendants, I was able to find calm in the incredible power of labor and birth.  And I wouldn’t have missed a second of it for anything.

Me, Edana and Junah

]]> http://www.luckypennymake.com/luckypennymake/2012/05/for-international-day-of-the-midwife-thank-you-edana.html/feed 7 http://www.luckypennymake.com/luckypennymake/2012/05/pocket-pants-for-the-boy.html http://www.luckypennymake.com/luckypennymake/2012/05/pocket-pants-for-the-boy.html#comments Tue, 01 May 2012 18:32:01 +0000 Barbara http://www.luckypennymake.com/?p=1360 Yesterday, as I was getting Ezra dressed, I realized that he has suddenly grown out of his jeans.  Just about all of them are a bit too snug in the waist and a little too short in the leg.  How does this happen over night?  I remembered this day, just a few weeks ago, when my sweet, energetic boy seemed a little shy (very unusual for him) but also very grown-up when he stuck his hands in his pants pockets and stood quietly surveying those of us around him.

I had a few hours free yesterday afternoon and I spent them thinking about this boy, picturing him as above, and working on some new jeans just for him.  Now that he’s using his pockets, I decided to add some generous ones, ones that would hold a train or too, as this guy loves his trains and takes them everywhere.

So this morning, getting Ezra ready to go to Grandpa’s, I was able to dress him in some (slightly roomy) brand new jeans.  I pointed the pockets out to him and he instantly said, “I want to put my trains in there.  Trains and rocks.”

As always I left an opening in the back of the casing so I can easily expand the elastic as needed, and made a deep hem that can be lengthened.

These are nearly the same pants I made for Junah just before she turned one, that Ezra’s been wearing for about a year.

And, while the addition of the pockets is my own design, I used a pattern that my mother used in 1976 to make a pair of pants for my sister.  I just wish I had a picture of those!

Getting our kitchen/laundry room this clean was part of my birthday gift to Jason, whose only birthday request was for a clean (read uncluttered) house.  I took these pictures last Wednesday, and I’m happy to report that I’ve managed to keep (with Jason’s help) the kitchen looking this good since (although we did eat out several times over the weekend, so we’ll see how I do in the next few days).

The day before I took those pictures I took this one, which, sadly, reflects the more common state of my kitchen.

You can’t really tell from that photo (because the counter is far too cluttered) but I usually have quite a few things living on my counter.  Not living as in living-breathing-alive, fortunately, but just as in parked.   As in there is just no other place for them.  But with the big clean up I found it possible to make a bit more room in the cupboards for some of those things (like the half dozen cookbooks I keep in the kitchen).  And that was only made possible by the recent addition of a pot rack.

My parents gave me this pot rack for Christmas years ago (it’s older than Ezra!) and we never hung it up.  This is the only possible location for it, and both my dad and Jason thought it was a bad idea to hang it over the stove.  I tried several times to part with it, but just couldn’t manage to.  So, about a month ago, I finally climbed up on the stove with a cordless drill and hung the darn thing myself (the above picture was taken just a few hours later).

And, oh my, it is now one of my favorite things in my kitchen (its closest rival being my Danby portable dishwasher).  I was concerned that having a pot rack would just make the kitchen look cluttered regardless of how neat anything else was.  And to you, it may (what did you think when you first saw the pictures above?).  But after having it for about a week I actually started to like the way it looks.  And I love, love how much it has transformed my kitchen.

I now have a little spare room in my kitchen cupboards.  I can now find things quickly when I’m looking for them.  I can put things away without having to spend ten minutes jigsawing-piecing them together so they’ll fit in a given drawer or cupboard.  And when I’m cooking the things I need most frequently are right there, in plain sight and easy reach.  And since I make about five meals a day, finding a way to make the cooking and cleaning a little quicker and a little easier makes me a lot happier.

This is a Chinese Juniper.  (I chose it for its decidedly Christmas tree shape, without realizing it will grow to approximately twenty feet tall by twelve feet wide!  Maybe my parents would like a nice deer resistant, drought tolerant shrub to plant?) Junah strung the bead garland and both kids added the puff ball decorations.  I must say, I’m kind of in love with this little tree.  One of my friends suggested on Facebook that we start a new family tradition.  I think it might just have to happen.

* guitars

Not only did I finish Ezra’s train track quilt, but I also finally finished the set of dollhouse dolls I started making for Junah before Christmas.

I have a few issues with how they turned out (the right eye of the “Junah” doll is bigger than the left, for instance) but overall am pretty pleased.  This family is meant to represent our family, with the addition of the “baby sister” Junah often wishes for (but will have no time soon!).

Our original plan when giving the kids dollhouses for Christmas last year was to have everything either be handmade or refurbished by us.  Well, that turned out to be unrealistic in the extreme.  Junah received a set of Melissa and Doug Victorian Dollhouse Dolls instead.

And I must say, neither of us were too pleased with this set. I think their blank stares make them look kind of creepy, and Junah prefers dolls whose clothes are removeable.  Added to which, these are “bendable” but not what I would call “highly bendable” and Junah has always had a hard time manipulating them.

Two years ago I created this doll with button joints at the shoulders and hips, which make it very easy to move her limbs.  (Is this a weird picture?  Nude Doll Sunbathing?)

The family Junah received for Easter is basically the same, but in different sizes.  I had a bit of trouble sizing up for the Dad, and as you can see, he’s very substantially proportioned, not exactly a great representation of my tall, thin husband.  Oh, well, I think he’s cute.

And the best part?  Junah loves them.  Especially the funky little “baby sister” (which has no arms or legs, is simply torso wrapped in a stitched-on blanket) which was a last minute addition to the set.

]]> http://www.luckypennymake.com/luckypennymake/2012/04/dollhouse-family-for-the-girl.html/feed 0 http://www.luckypennymake.com/luckypennymake/2012/04/a-constant-readers-obsession-with-the-dark-tower.html http://www.luckypennymake.com/luckypennymake/2012/04/a-constant-readers-obsession-with-the-dark-tower.html#comments Tue, 17 Apr 2012 16:24:07 +0000 Barbara http://www.luckypennymake.com/?p=1281 I’ve long been a Stephen King fan.  My first introduction to Stephen King was watching the movie version of Carrie with my mom (I was six maybe?) because she was too scared to watch it alone.  My first introduction to his written work was when my mom read parts of It aloud to me and my older sister because she was too scared to read it by herself.  Or that’s how I remember those things.  We also read parts of Jaws together for the same reason.  And your first reaction might be, “How terrible!” But I think, how wonderful!  Yes, perhaps we could have been forever scarred, but we weren’t.  And I became forever after a Stephen King fan, for which I am immensely grateful to my mother.  I remember reading Skeleton Crew in sixth grade and doing a book report on The Long Walk in seventh grade.  I think I read Dead Zone before either of those.

I have not read everything Stephen King has published, but I think I’ve read enough to consider myself one of his Constant Readers.  Especially now.  Now that I’m almost done reading The Dark Tower (book 7 of the Dark Tower Series).  You see, I’ve long wanted to read the Dark Tower series.  If I had a bucket list, reading the entire series, what King calls his magnum opus, would be on it.  I had this idea that to truly consider myself a King fan, to really be a Constant Reader,  I must read those books.

My younger sister, another King fan, had read them and loved them.  I tried, and tried again.  I just couldn’t seem to get into, or through, the first of the series, The Gunslinger.  To be honest, it felt like a person failure on my part.  But a year or two ago I did manage persist my way through it.  But it wasn’t easy going.  For some reason I could not get my heart or mind into this strangely post-apocalyptic western.  I couldn’t get a handle on this Roland Deschain or the man in black.  But finish it I did, and I immediately picked up the second book, made it through a few pages and gave up in mental exhaustion, despite the assurance from my sister that I would get it if I read the second.  I would get it and be hooked.  But you know, I’m the older sister of the two of us, and I don’t think I quite believed her.

Then in February or early March I read 11/22/63 and, as often happens when I read something of King’s, I needed more.  I went on a King Kick, I suppose.  I decided the time  had come to give the Dark Tower another chance, so I picked up The Drawing of the Three, and despite having a hard time getting into it, finished within 30 hours (no small feat at 399 pages with two littles in the house).  Because my sister was right.  I was hooked.

(Obsessed maybe.  To the point where I have now recommend to my nearly 90 year old grandmother that she read her first Stephen King book (I recommended 11/22/63), to the point where I had family laughing at me over Easter brunch because I couldn’t stop talking about the Dark Tower books.  Because I sometimes can’t resist saying things like, “Long days and pleasant nights,” or “do ya ken?” or “thankee-sai”. )

I devoured the next two books, physically reading them whenever I could, listening to the audio versions I downloaded from the library when I had to drag myself away to make dinner, fold laundry, etc.  After reading the fourth I went back and read The Gunslinger again, wanting to refresh myself, wanting to get it, really get it, especially after the fourth book which focuses on Roland’s early life.  And partly because, having only three books left to read, I was worried about getting through them too quickly.  You know when you just don’t want a book to end, but you can’t put it down?  I started feeling that with this series way back after book four.

And now, here I am, having just passed page 600 of the The Dark Tower (and for those of you who have read the it, you may recollect the emotional shit-storm about half way through) dreading finishing.

But, there is a light.  As I’ve been reading the series I have resisted the urge to google anything even remotely related to the Dark Tower series in case I accidentally read something that gives away what happens.  But as I’ve been writing this post, and pulling up links to the books on Amazon, I’ve discovered an wonderful thing.  Wonderful if you happen to be a Constant Reader (and I am!  I am!).  On April 24th a new book, The Wind Through the Keyhole, a Dark Tower Novel, will be released.  And I will receive my pre-ordered copy that day.  Say thankya.

Disclosure

In February I made the switch from Typepad to WordPress.org (self-hosted wordpress, different from wordpress.com) and chose Dreamhost.com as my webhost. I chose Dreamhost mostly because I was loosely following this guide and wanted keep the process as simple as possible. After less than a month, however, I started noticing that my site was frequently unavailable or very slow to load. I contacted Dreamhost and was told that something I was doing was causing the problems and they gave me a whole list of things to try (which I did, insofar as I could figure out what to do).

And here’s the thing about Dreamhost support, contact is via a trouble ticket with a reply coming via e-mail. So if you need more information? A bit of additional clarification? Open a new support ticket.

I decided to switch to Bluehost.com (because it seems to get good reviews, but more because SmallNotebook.org is hosted on Bluehost and I really wish I could be more organized and less cluttered and, well, more like Rachel of Small Notebook.  Good enough reasons?)

I began the switch to Bluehost a few weeks ago (a bad cold and Easter crafts are why I’ve just now made the switch official) and have already used their 24/7 online chat tech support a few times. So much more helpful! And faster! And 24/7! And, if you prefer the telephone, customer service is available 24/7 that way too. Of course, my kids always know the second I get on the phone and create a crisis to celebrate, so I prefer the internet chat.

Things seem better off so far, and I’m definitely enjoy the better service. But, fingers-crossed that all remains well. And, just for the record, I previously had a dreamhost affiliate link on my site (no more!) and I am in no way affiliated with Bluehost other than as a new, hopeful customer.