Momspiration

Finding My Direction

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I signed up my littlest for preschool. Starting in September,  I will have 3 child-free hours to myself twice each week. Some parents rejoice at this shard of freedom. They regard the open hours with delight, imagining the quiet, the swift errands, the to-do list toppling abilities, the ease of exiting the car without unlatching and unbuckling other humans only to relatch and rebuckle their wiggling bodies a short time later. I, on the other hand, feel simultaneously mournful and lost.

I’m not ready to have my littlest leave my hip. I’m not ready to begin closing this young childhood chapter. I’m not ready to let go. I’m not ready for this next step. He is, though. So my level of readiness is moot.

I’m lost because I don’t know what to do with the vast yet limited time. One of the 3-hour preschool days will be dedicated to grocery shopping. Because every parent knows how demanding that errand is when accompanied by one or more children. So that leaves me with one 3-hour day to do with as I choose. So what do I choose?

At first I thought I could restart my International Board Certified Lactation Consultant educational endeavor. Then I realized that 3-hours once a week provides opportunity for a sliver of coursework — the credits which nullify after a limited time period — but offers no window for the requisite supervised patient hours. Then I remembered the level of flexibility I will require for sick days, class parties, school holidays, field trips, preschool performances, parent coffees, etc. The two-day preschool schedule is not stagnant. And so the educational goal was shelved, yet again, until all of my brood is in full-day school.

So, what’s a more viable option? Exercise?? Maybe. But I’m a workout DVD person as opposed to a class go’er. By September I will likely no longer be pumping (I realized this with a heavy heart. My surplus output is dwindling at 19 months postpartum — as it should — but, natural or not, the progression is bittersweet. No more 24/7 toddler companion AND no more milk donation??? I am wounded at the mere thought.)  So I will likely replace my pumping time with at-home exercise anyway. Exercise class option negated.

Perhaps I’ll volunteer! That’s a more likely choice. Given my looming milk donation end date, I will want to give back another way somehow. I began contemplating possible charities. Then I realized a more personal opportunity. Perhaps I could regularly volunteer at my eldest’s school! I have been remiss in my inability to participate to my desired degree this year given my littlest’s schedule and breastfeeding demands. Maybe that’s the solution. Maybe I might have possibly found an appropriate time filler. Something that gives me purpose. Something that still connects me to my maternal duties. Something that will make the time seem less empty and more fulfilling.

It’s hard being a stay-at-home mom. We give so much of ourselves to our children. Our identity becomes entwined with our maternal duties, just as a lawyer, an artist, a scientist, or a medical professional identifies with his/her career. Except children grow up and away.

We cheer for the development, praise the growth, but mourn the loss of our baby. To be needed in that primal way, to be wanted and loved and cuddled, to be present… it is a fleeting gift.

The constant demands of the newborn phase throw us into a world all our own. A survival-based existence of milk and spit-up, sleeplessness and lullabies. Then, in all too short time, the phase is over. The once-infant is walking and talking, becoming more child than baby. The increasing independence means that the burgeoning child is beginning to experience the world on his or her own. Once school begins, swaths of the child’s day will no longer be witnessed by us. We won’t share in those memories. We won’t know all of his or her friends. We won’t kiss all of the boo-boos or high-five all of the accomplishments. The child will be creating memories of his or her own. Without us.

As my littlest takes his own first step into the world I must bolster myself. I must cheer him on instead of holding him back. And I must take my own first step back into the world too. I must simply determine in which direction.

 

 

Grateful to be a Stay-at-home Mom

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It’s days like today when I am grateful to be a stay-at-home mom. It wasn’t an easy day or a particularly challenging day, it wasn’t monumentally memorable or undeniably notable in any way. It was a relatively standard day in my harried, scheduled, intentional life as a stay-at-home mom of three kids 5 and under. But I was there, and for that I am grateful.

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Sure, being a stay-at-home parent is an ongoing gig with few breaks, no vacation or sick days, no pay, and little appreciation (heck, some even resent if not balk at the endeavor), but it is immensely rewarding. For me.

Others may find the undertaking simply torturous or overwhelmingly monotonous. It is truly all in how you approach the responsibility and how you are wired.

I treat my stay-at-home parenting as a job. Truly. Each day I am focused on maintaining a schedule and –hopefully — creating a socially enriching and physically healthy routine for my kids. I have a plan every day just as I did when I was a cubicle-dweller. Just now my colleagues wipe their noses on my clothes and all bathroom duties are communal.

Some people are destined to be moguls, intellectuals, healers, entrepreneurs, managers, artists, or organizers. Heck, some people have no desire to procreate at all. To them I say, “Bravo!” Knowing yourself and your goals, being true to yourself despite outside pressures — real and imagined — takes fortitude. Do you!

Then, there are the men and women like me whose main life goal is to nurture our own offspring. We don’t aspire to be rich in wealth or fame, just in love.

Unfortunately, sometimes life unfolds in such a way that this doesn’t or cannot occur. Instead of walking their dreamed journey, individuals are forcibly detoured to another life path without the comfort of celestial explanation.

Other times, the nurturing path is open. The life aspirations of 24/7 care duties ensue. It’s humbling and fulfilling, exhausting and invigorating, disgusting and beautiful all at once. Each day presents millions of individual moments that range greatly from sweet to stressful, comical to thought-provoking. Some days you feel as if you have hardly used your brain beyond basic feed-clean-protect duties. Then there are days you flop onto your bed in complete exhaustion not knowing how you survived — or how you’ll manage the strength to visit the bathroom to empty your hours-full bladder — but you’re certain that you’ll do it all again tomorrow. Because you’re a parent and that’s what you do.

Today though. Today, mingled among the mundane and trying moments, were brilliant flickers of beauty that reminded me why I am so grateful to be home with my children.

This morning I had the ability to spend a morning taking my littlest to a playground where he could run about with his pint-sized friend. I could take him to a children’s concert and witness his amusement. I could take my boys for a long walk in the afternoon sun and make a last-minute detour to a playground before school pick-up duties called. I could collect my kindergartener from school and hear her gush about her day. I could be here for the good, the bad, the goofy, and the downright obnoxious.

I once worked. I once wore heels and dangling earrings. I once had coffee with fellow adults and spoke in uninterrupted sentences. That’s a past me. A me that was unhappy and unfulfilled because I was playing a roll that didn’t suit me. Just as a natural career man or woman would feel if he or she was forced to be a stay-at-home parent.

There is no single path. There is no “right” or “wrong” journey. It is simply up to us to follow the road laid out before us, to seek our own happiness in accordance with our circumstances and selves.

This is my path. And I am grateful to be present.

Pressing “Play” Instead of “Fast Forward”

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Sleeping through the night, rolling over, sitting up, eating solid foods, crawling, talking, walking, potty-training, riding a bike, tying shoes, starting school… we move through our children’s childhood with eyes forward. Some parents with more vigor and ambitious competitiveness than others. We look ahead to the next stage, achievement, or development. Being forward-thinking is positive except when it causes us to lose sight of the present.

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Yesterday, I sat in my 1.5-year-old’s darkened bedroom rocking and nursing him before his nap, just as I have every day for the last 19 months. In the dark quiet I began lamenting my lack of freedom, my breastmilk tether. To be able to go out to lunch, volunteer at my older children’s schools, exercise, or go to appointments without navigating naptime, which doesn’t exist without a pre-snooze nursing session, seemed lovely. To be able to go out with my husband or friends and not worry about getting home to nurse my littlest before bed seemed refreshing. To not have to remain home after my littlest’s bedtime in case he awakes, as only nursing can return him to slumber, seemed freeing. The longing for freedom was overwhelming. I craved the next stage.

I began contemplating when to wean to a bottle or sippy cup, at least for naptime. It was new territory. I’d worked part-time from 4 months postpartum with my first child until my first trimester with my third child, so my eldest two children learned early on how to find sleep without the breast. My littlest, though, never needed to welcome rest in any other way but in my arms. I chided myself for not introducing a nursing-free naptime sooner. What had I been thinking?

Then, my toddler placed a sweaty, sleepy hand on my cheek. I looked down at his blissful nursing state and realized that soon this season would be over. He will not nurse forever. He will not always need or want me to cuddle him in his dim bedroom each day and night before sleep. He will not always look to me for nourishment and comfort. “You’ll have your whole life to be free,” I thought to myself. “Savor the present.”

Like the tween sneaking into an R-rated movie or the teenager preening to look older, I was wishing away my present. I was being impatient with a fleeting precious stage in the hopes of reaching the next phase sooner. But getting there sooner doesn’t mean a thing since arrival is an eventuality. If anything it cheapens the journey and is fodder for regret.

And so, as I lie here now on the playroom sofa at far-too-early-in-the-morning after 2 hours of sleep and reading many baby storybooks by the light of “Max and Ruby” due to toddler insomnia, I feel his finally-asleep weight on me and I smile. Sure, I’m tired. Sure, I’ll have to dig deep tomorrow to delve into the Monday routine with 3 kids 5 and under, but it’s worth it.

These hardships, these swift sweet moments, these gems amidst the craggy rocks are what parenthood is all about. If we keep our eyes forward we miss the beautiful details of the present and there’s no getting them back.

We will get to that next stage eventually. No need to rush it. Just enjoy the ride.

Real Talk: Postpartum Hair Loss

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You get pregnant. You’re round and glowing, you urinate every 20 minutes, and produce more gas than Exxonmobil. But, if you’re so fortunate, your suffering is eased by a glamorous perk: pregnancy hair. What you don’t realize is it’s only on loan.

Your hair has never been so full, lush, and manageable. It is your crowning gestational glory. Until postpartum hair loss hits. Some time around 3 or 4 months postpartum your body realizes that baby it’s been brewing has made a departure. And now it is time for all of that phenomenal hair to do the same.

While you were pregnant, your body held onto hair instead of shedding regularly. Now your hormones have reset so shedding has begun again. The problem is that you’re now shedding 10 months of mane all at once. That means a thinning hairline, bald patches, mangy ends, overall thinness. Not pretty.

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Me 4 months postpartum after my 3rd child. I lost a lot of hair, as I always do postpartum. I have never shared this vulnerable image but do so in the hopes that others feel solace knowing they are not alone.

Mother nature may be kicking your leaky, stretched, hormonal, dark-circled self in the ovaries but that’s the price you pay for 10 months of pregnancy hair and a baby. There are ways to manage the hair loss though. After having three kids and three rounds of confidence-obliterating postpartum hair loss, these are my tips for regaining a sense of follicular normalcy.

1) Remember this is natural, unavoidable, and – most importantly — temporary! You will hit a point when you think you will go bald. You will have clumps of hair clog your drain after just one shower. You will cry. You will survive this. This WILL stop. Know this. You will NOT go bald.

2) Don’t believe the hype! People will claim this potion, that vitamin, or this treatment will magically halt the hair loss. FALSE! Nothing is stopping this hormonal train. The best you can do is manage the aftermath. Don’t buy the snake oil.

3) Regrowth is your hope! Biotin supplements and prenatal vitamins are your key to speeding up regrowth. Some shampoos offer the same claim too.. the jury’s out on that. If it makes you feel better, buy them, try them, and go for it. It won’t stop or reverse hair loss, but the vitamins at least will help new hair replace the shed hair sooner.

4) Camouflage is your friend! Hit up a beauty supply store and buy a hair piece (faux bun, hair-covered hair tie, or faux ponytail like these) or dry shampoo/texturing product, whatever works to hide your thinning ends and allows you to wear your hair up with confidence. (Bonus: Wearing your hair up very temporarily keeps the hairs from shedding, but know that as soon as you release your hair so will your scalp. Also, updos can get uncomfy given the hair loss can place unwanted stress on still-rooted hairs as others depart throughout the day. So proceed with reasonable caution.) Grab some root concealing spray or powder (this is my favorite) to hide any thinning edges and bare patches. There are ways to hide the hair diaspora.

5) Cut and color boost more than your confidence! A shorter cut makes hair appear thicker. Hair dye makes hair appear fuller. The combo could be just the image-enhancing, volume-feigning move you need.

Postpartum hair loss is embarrassing but it shouldn’t be. It’s entirely natural. Your body just did an amazing thing: it created a human. YOU created a human. You are amazing. You are beautiful. Your hair will return and this will all be a memory. You’ve got this!

Explaining War to my Kindergartener

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“Mommy, what’s that?” My 5-year-old asked, pointing to a large, black conical structure a few feet from the astronaut exhibit we were admiring. “I don’t know. Let’s go see.” So, over we went, my 3.5-year-old holding one hand, my 5-year-old holding the other, and my 1.5-year-old strapped to my chest. “It’s a missile,” I said as I scanned the display plaque. “What’s a missile?” She asked. I paused.

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How to explain missiles, war, destruction, and intentional loss of life to a kindergartener without fueling nightmares or marring her worldview?  I had to keep it simple but accurate. I had to think fast.

“Missiles are like bombs that one country can launch at another country during war.” I said succinctly, hoping her interest would fizzle and we could return to examining astronaut toileting gear.

“What’s war?” She asked. Crap! “War can happen when countries disagree with one another and can’t talk it out. Instead, they hurt each other until one country is so hurt that it cannot or will not fight anymore.”

“How do they hurt each other?” She asked. Dammit! “They use guns and bombs…” “and missles?” She interjected. “Yes, and missles.”

“How do the missles hurt people? Does that pointy thing on the end poke people?” Whyyy?? “Not quite,” I began, “The missile blows up and that explosion hurts people.” “How does the explosion hurt people?” She inquired. “The explosion can make buildings fall down, things catch fire, people who were in the buildings get injured or die.” She looked at me in silence. She appeared both sad and confused.

“Why do countries do that?” “I don’t know. I don’t quite understand it.” I replied, “No one likes war. Unfortunately, sometimes it just happens. Countries get so angry with one another that they think the only way to end the argument is to start a war. Sometimes people in one country want to hurt people in another country, so war happens when one country is trying to protect itself.” I pointed to the display where we had previously stood for a long time examining the uniform of a female Air Force officer. While examining the details of her jacket, we reviewed the family history of military service — both of my grandfathers, my great uncle, etc. — and family friends who served and are serving. “That’s why people like her are important. They help keep us safe.” She nodded and grabbed my hand.

“I don’t like war, Mommy.” She said with a sigh. “I don’t either, sweetheart.” “Can we see the astronaut pee bag again, Mommy?” Asked my 3.5-year-old. “Yes. Yes we can.”

Seeing my Former Self

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I was standing in at the grocery store register, trying to entertain my 1.5-year-old to just get through the last 5 minutes of the errand without a meltdown. We’d made it this far — thanks to our Ergo 360 and nursing on the go — we just needed to last a few more minutes.

Then I saw her. The mom with what appeared to be a 4-year-old, 2.5-year-old, and infant. It was me last year. Outwardly, she appeared calm wrangling her brood as she awaited staff assistance, but I could sense her camouflaged stress and feel the familiar cloud of perpetual chaos.

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The sight took me back to that not-so-distant time. I remembered the constant demands, as no one was independent yet everyone had an attitude. I recalled that unshakable exhaustion, as I got little quality sleep but lived a life that required high energy and even loftier levels of patience. I remembered being in survival mode 24/7. I remembered the haze, the self-imposed guilt, the frustration of doing and giving it all yet feeling as if I accomplished nothing. I remembered the tenderness, the cuddles, the duckling fluff infant hair, the afternoon playdates, the chubby toddler cheeks, the preschooler lisps, the calmer schedule. I remembered my entire trio being younger, smaller, pudgier, needier.

After swiping and signing to pay for my groceries, I looked down at my toddler, squirming in the carrier, and realized how far my life had progressed. How quickly things had changed. And then it hit me: in no time, none of them will need me for the little things. They may reluctantly call upon me for a listening ear, life insight, or homework help, but I won’t be so central to their lives. If anything, I’ll be an irksome source of embarrassment and nagging. At least until much later years, if I am so fortunate.

My harried days are numbered. My children are growing faster than I’d choose and, with that swift development, adjusting my life, my identity, my purpose.

I have no control over the tide. I am merely swept along, clutching to memories and moments as they rush past. I see my previous life stages drift away into hazy memory as I careen towards an unknown destination. If I focus too heavily on the past, I miss the present. If I dwell on the ambiguous future, I miss it all. If I try to fight the tide, I’ll drown.

Bundling up my toddler, I looked back at the mom of 3 under 4 and remembered being her. Part of me was glad to have moved beyond the madness, but another part of me envied her. She doesn’t realize how beautiful her present exhausted state is, how much she’ll treasure those memories, and long to be so intrinsically needed. I certainly didn’t when I was her.

I gave my toddler a squeeze and batted away tears as I passed my former self. Leaving the exhaustion and beauty behind, I faced the day with a greater appreciation. I will survive the frenzied day-to-day but I will also savor, for it will be a memory in too short time.

Needing to Break the Routine

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It’s 5:30am. My littlest, who cosleeps from his nighttime wake-up until morning, is half-asleep nursing. I feel my 5:45am alarm approaching: stress!

Knowing I would remain fully awake now and not wanting to disturb my husband or nursling, I turn off my alarm carefully trying not to disturb my littlest. I feel stress bubble up inside me. “I NEED to be up in 13 minutes.” I think to myself. I begin contemplating whether I can sneak out of the bed without waking my bed partners. But my toddler is a boob barnacle, so sneaking out is a non-option. “Do I just wake him up and take him downstairs before he’s ready?” I ponder. I dash that thought knowing full well how rocky a morning that will be.

“But I NEED to get up!” I mentally moan. I carefully lift my head to look at the clock without disturbing my littlest’s latch: 5:35.

“Wait,” I think to myself, “my preschooler is on Christmas break. My husband is dropping off our kindergartener for her last day of school before break. All I’m doing is going to the grocery store, doing chores, and driving school pick-up this afternoon. I don’t ‘NEED’ to wake up right now.” That’s when I realized what I really needed to do: slow down.

I needed to pull up the covers and cuddle my little one. I needed to feel his soft skin and pudgy hands. I needed to etch in my mind the feeling of his warm little footsie pajama’ed body against mine. I needed to savor.

Sometimes I get so lost in the to-do list, the routine, and the stressors that I can forget what I actually NEED to do. Slow down and savor for this all goes by too fast.

 

Holiday Survival: Don’t Stress Over “Perfect”

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The qwest for holiday perfection is a losing battle that robs the season of its joy. The perfect family picture for the holiday card, the perfect holiday decorations, the perfect Christmas tree, the perfect holiday meal, the perfect family ensembles that “go” but don’t “match”, the perfect presents… it’s not going to happen. It’s just not. So be like Elsa and “Let it Go!” Enjoy your perfectly imperfect holiday just as it is.

The struggle to snap that idillic family photo is a goal bound for failure. The more people — especially young ones — in a picture, the more likely it is to flounder. One kid will have an awkward smile, another will be crying, you’ll have a double chin and dark circles, hubby will have an unexpected lazy-eye, only one person will be looking at the camera… something will go awry with each snapshot. Accept the photo as an illustration of reality, laugh, and move on.

Aiming for that cozy Hallmark card holiday home look is adorable. But do you know what Hallmark card homes don’t have to withstand? Kids, pets, life. Those heirloom ornaments, the overpriced luxurious fresh garlands placed just so, the flickering glow of candle flames beside glittering crystal… invitations for disaster. Dial it down to less breakable decor and you’ll save your own sanity and holiday happiness. Aim for “merry” instead of “mishaps.”

The holiday tree is natural which means: flaws. You can spend hours agonizing over a hole-free, perfectly lush pine or you can nab the best one you can, turn the hole towards the wall, and decorate with abandon. Enough ornaments and lights can hide just about anything. And if not, it’ll be a funny tale for later years.

Holiday meals can be planned, cooked, and prepared with the goal of perfection or with an eye for enjoyment. Don’t overtax yourself or you’ll be too stressed to truly experience the meal you toiled to create. Don’t create unattainably high expectations of picturesque family gatherings or wrack your mind with drama dread. Instead, aim for an enjoyable gathering and accept that reality — both memorably good and woefully bad — will ensue. Then, choose to laugh.

You can put hours of online shopping and weeks of Pinterest perusing to develop your perfect family ensemble collection. You know the one that is precisely coordinated without matching. You could also then promptly lose your holiday-dazed mind when one kid smears jelly across that pressed shirt, another refuses the itchy taffeta dress, and the littlest has a devilishly timed diaper malfunction. Lesson: lower your bar and have backup options. When you look back at this holiday will you be thinking, “Ahh, that was the year of the perfectly coordinated outfits! That pattern precision really made the day.” Or, instead, would memories of  the day’s quirks and smiles stick in your mind? “Remember when Timmy got his arm stuck in the new toy? Oh, Timmy! Good times.”

Fretting over getting everyone’s present just right, agonizing over eliciting that glow of enjoyment from each wrapped purchase, is a lovely but maddening goal. Thoughtfulness is always admirable. Other-centeredness is praiseworthy. Spending your holiday season stressing and spending yourself into ruin all for a gift is not going to be your healthiest holiday venture. Be thoughtful and generous, but be reasonable… your happiness matters too.

The holiday season is equal parts fun and frenzied, sentimental and stressful, maddening and memorable. Lower your bar to a comfortably livable level and enjoy the people, memories, and life around you. Appreciate the reality you have instead of pruning it to appear otherwise. Your real-life imperfection is perfect just the way it is.

 

 

 

 

 

Mom Confession: I Lost My Sh*t

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Remember when I said, here, that I was not at all looking forward to homework? Well, homework happened about 2 minutes before bedtime on a Sunday evening after a long day. And I lost my sh*t… all of it.

6:55pm, my kindergartener realizes she hasn’t sharpened her pencils and crayons for school the next day. Her teacher is all about the kids taking responsibility for this task, and I am adamantly behind that perspective. The problem: my kindergartener hasn’t mastered the firm-yet-gentle pressure required to sharpen a pencil without snapping it, which means I have to help.

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So, instead of herding my trio upstairs for baths and bed, my daughter and I sit twirling writing utensils in a plastic sharpener. Then she realizes something: the class bear — which comes with a blank “all about me” poster and a weekend write-up to be completed with appended printed photos — was due back tomorrow, not the following week as she’d originally told us. Out come the project materials!

It is 6:58pm. My 1.5-year-old is melting down because it’s 2 minutes until his bedtime. My preschooler is repeatedly calling my name. I am at the kitchen table helping my kindergartener draw stick figures. This is not how I planned to spend my Sunday evening!

“Mommy! Mommy! Mooooommy!” My preschooler calls. I’m trying to hurriedly complete the ginormous blank poster that requires a sketch for each question. “What is your favorite song?” I read from the posterboard. How in the hell do you draw a song?  My kindergartener can’t remember her favorite tune. What conveniently timed senility!

My preschooler is STILL calling my name. “WHAT?” I growl. “I cleaned up.” My preschooler falsely claims, pointing at two books he returned to the shelf as he’s surrounded by toy calamity. I roar some unintelligible Mommy-has-lost-every-last-shred-of-patience retort. He shriek-cries. “Sia!” My kindergartener shouts. My husband stands in the middle of the kitchen bearing witness but not wanting to breathe for fear of drawing my wrath.

I take a deep breath and try to help my kindergartener draw her favorite song — we have a low bar… she writes the name “Sia” and draws a couple of  music notes — as my preschooler sobs. Now my 1.5-year-old is full-on crying too because it’s past his bedtime and our house is bedlam. I ask, with the gentility of a constipated bull moose, for my husband to comfort the preschooler as I coach our kindergartener through drawing a family portait. “Maybe you shouldn’t have yelled at him.” He says calmly. I shoot him a death glare. It is as if he wants to save money on the eventual vasectomy by having me castrate him right then and there.

Still, he’s right. I know he’s right. It doesn’t mean that I like it though.

I leave my kindergartener to draw a stick figure version of herself on a sliding board. I go to my preschooler, crouch down to his level, look him in his doe-like blue eyes, and apologize. We hug it out, him still crying in a mixture of exhaustion and release. I tell him to clean up the rest of the playroom, head back to the kindergartener, and shoot my husband one more glare to clearly communicate: “no more words.”

I sit down with a great exhale. “C’mon, let’s get this thing finished,” I tell her. “We’re aiming for ‘completed’, not ‘good.'” Parent of the year, right here!

By 7:20 my kindergartener has finished her portion of the project. Now I get to write a report about our weekend comings-and-goings while my toddler and preschooler serenade me in simultaneous fatigue freak-outs from the playroom. My husband takes the kindergartener and preschooler up for baths.

It’s 7:30… report complete. It’s a half-hour past my littlest’s bedtime. I decide to leave the photo collage until the morning and get my snot and tear smeared toddler to bed.

I apologize to my husband later that evening and thank him for being more patient than I. A hug seals the resolution. “I’m not that patient.” He says. “You’re a good mom,” He reassures me.

I lost my sh*t… all of it. I’m a mom. Moreover, I’m a human. It happens. Apologize, hug, and move along. This is life. It’s imperfect and so are we.

Survival Tips for First-Time-Dads

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First-time-dads, I have some survival tips for you. You may be aware that a new baby means changes in your life but, as the saying goes, “you don’t know what you don’t know.”

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Help. Your partner just birthed a human. If she’s nursing, she is simultaneously trying to physically, emotionally, and mentally heal all while sustaining another human life with that same fatigued body. You need to step up your game and pitch in. Take on at least two daily chores and don’t expect praise for doing so. Wash breast pump parts or bottle parts, cover bathtime duty, do laundry all the way from washer to folding, do the dishes, cook meals… just do it.

Competence. Do not play the incompetent man card. Just don’t. It demeans everyone. You helped create the child, you help parent the child. You’re scared and self-doubting? Practice makes perfect. If you need a break, make sure your partner gets one too. This is a team effort.

Encouragement. Your partner needs you to be her biggest cheerleader. Your baby needs you to lift up that mama in spirit. Remind her that she’s doing great, that she’s loved and smart and beautiful. She needs to hear that you’re right there with her loving her through all of the painful, embarrassing, and unglamorous postpartum woes. Tell her that she’s strong and competent. She may not accept your compliments but keep at it. She needs to hear it. Be that non-judgmental, safe place for her. Be her partner.

Support. If your baby is experiencing feeding issues this will affect your partner more deeply than you may comprehend. She just grew and nourished that child for the better part of a year, not being able to easily feed that same baby now that he/she is in her arms is dumbfounding. The guilt, anger, shame, and sadness that come with feeding issues (not to mention physical pain) are burdensome. If nursing issues are at play, encourage the expert support of an International Board Certified Lactation Consultant  (these medical professionals are trained beyond your standard Lactation Consultant. You can find one local to you here.) If your partner is exclusively pumping, wash the breast pump parts, buy extra sets of pump parts to lessen the need for quick wash-and-dry turnaround, make her a snack when she’s pumping, make sure her water bottle is never empty, encourage her, praise her. If she is formula feeding, you feed as often as she does and take over washing duty. She needs you. The baby needs you.

Jealousy. In all likelihood at some point within the first month postpartum you will become jealous of the baby. I know that sounds ridiculous now — almost as utterly ludicrous as those sentiments will sound to your partner when you experience them — but it’s bound to happen. Right now you are the center of your partner’s affections. You are her best friend, confidant, and Netflix buddy. When baby comes, you will be bumped back a post. That nudge to end of the line may feel harsh and unfair, but it is necessary. The baby is helpless and requires parental attention and affection to survive. This is precisely why nature has employed hefty doses of mind- and body-altering hormones to change your once sultry and affable partner into a leaky, exhausted, overtly maternal she-beast… baby needs her in order to survive. As abandoned as you may feel, you are an adult and will survive. Keep being there for her and she’ll return to you again once the baby haze dissipates.

Exhaustion. When I say “exhaustion” you’re likely thinking “really tired.” Like that night-turned-day back in your youth when you were out until 6am then chugged a Red Bull, hit up McDonald’s breakfast, and powered through your daily grind. But you know what was different back then? 1) Youth… being younger makes you more resilient, 2) choice… you personally chose to stay up all night, 3) infrequency… you stayed up like that on occasion, not 3 weeks in a row, 4) rest… pre-baby, you could take it easy and rest after a long night but not now. The tired you are about to feel will undermine every good quality, every value, every shred of intellect and self-control you possess. When you hit a certain level of stress and sleep deprivation you land at a rock bottom zombie mode of existence. But you, my friend, are not healing from birthing a human you grew in your body, bleeding profusely from your nether regions, leaking from your nipples, or presently existing with breast milk and hormones being your predominant body composition. Think twice before taking that nap ahead of your healing partner. You may be tired but she is positioned at a whole new level of fatigue. (Plus, she’s hormonal… don’t mess with that.)

Hormones. The word likely makes you think of body builders and PMS. Your partner’s body is in a state of flux. The amount of hormones coursing through her system paired with the stress and sleeplessness of new-motherhood has her living life as an alien being. She will get angry quickly and cry suddenly. She will feel anxious and agitated then flip back to calm and loving. It is best to keep a closed mouth and an open heart. Remember, this is not her acting like a maniac over improperly scrubbed breast pump parts, it’s the hormones. Leave your ego at the door and pull on some extra layers of patience. Empathy would do you well now.

PPD/PPA. “Baby blues” are to be expected. Postpartum Depression and Postpartum Anxiety are another level of sadness and agitation. They are more common than we often think. Many women go undiagnosed and only realized years later that their suffering could have been helped. Know the signs of PPD and PPA.

Doubt. Every single parent has a moment or week when he or she thinks, “Did we make a huge mistake?” Don’t feel guilty or lesser for that. It is an entirely normal and natural thought. The feeling will pass. You will adjust. Life will even out. Remember, your entire life just changed over night. You, your partner, your perspectives, your goals, your aspirations, and your worldviews will be affected by this shift. It is the most beautiful and wonderful adjustment that will ever touch your life. Know it will get easier… this is good change.

Patience. Parenthood requires a level of patience you never thought you had. Patience through the good stages and bad stages, the disgusting phases and tiring phases. Patience with yourself and your partner  Patience with physical recovery and return to flexibility. Patience with a return to intimacy and mastering the learning curve. You’ll get there. It’ll get easier. You can truly enjoy it, if you actively choose to do so. Just be patient.

Bond. Skin-to-skin isn’t just for mom and baby. It has remarkable calming and bonding effects on fathers and offspring too. After baby is fed and changed, shoo mom off to take a nice, warm shower while you and baby rest shirtless, tummy-to-tummy on the sofa. You’ll soon find out why moms love sleeping baby cuddles… the hormones’ blood pressure lowering, calming effect is euphoric. Enjoy!

Savor. Some stages seem to last eons. Some phases seem like they’ll never end, but they do. They all do. Take the good with the not-so-good, and cherish it. This is a fleeting time. Take pictures, take time, take a break from the grind and experience this new life of yours. Children are only small but for a moment. Don’t let their babyhood flit by without notice.

Laugh. If you want to retain some semblance of sanity and composure, learn to laugh at yourself. There’s no need to take it all so seriously. Your kid will neither be the first nor last (that day) to meltdown in Target. Your inside-out shirt with a spit-up streak down the back, which you wore half of the day without noticing, deserves nothing short of a belly laugh. You can choose how you respond to life’s blips — yell, scream, stomp, cry, blame, or laugh — laughing is the funnest. Don’t be that guy who flips out because there’s a shin-level snot streak on his jeans. Just laugh.

Love. You are going to experience a level of love you never knew possible. A deep, unconditional, fear-inducing, beautiful adoration that will carve its way through you and your life and reshape everything perfectly. The adjustment may be scary and challenging at first but it will be more worthwhile than anything else in your life.

Parenthood is brutal and exhausting, enlightening and unpredictable, stressful and blissful. It is a partnership between parent and child as well as between significant others. It requires internal and external support, great personal fortitude, vast patience, and an open mind.

You are about to see the world in a whole new light. Fresh breath will be infused into the everyday. The mundane will become miraculous and the unusual simply extraordinary. Survive it and savor it for it goes all too quickly.

You can do this. Congratulations!