Momspiration

An Exercise in Gratitude

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Sometimes — too often — I can get so engrossed in the day-to-day routine, the pick-ups, the drop-offs, the meal planning and preparing, the clean-up, the playtime, the storytime, the to-do list that I forget to take a breath and appreciate the abundance I have that allows for this chaos. Today, though, I am grateful.

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I am grateful for my supportive, appreciative, involved, loving husband. I am grateful for each of my three different and perfectly imperfect children. I am grateful for my health and life circumstances allowing me to be a stay-at-home mom.

I am grateful that my milk oversupply allows me to donate milk to others and that my husband is an immense supporter of the endeavor. I am grateful for encountering gracious and lovely milk recipients. I am grateful for being granted the opportunity to see friends and acquaintances accept the calling and serve others with their natural excess.

I am grateful for my fun, genuine, wholly beautiful mom friends. I am grateful for my non-mom friends who loyally stick by me knowing that one day we will socialize again (in the meantime, thank you social media!) I am grateful for family that strives to be regularly involved in our children’s lives.

I am grateful for date nights. I am grateful for mom dates. I am grateful for playdates and library story times. I am grateful for quiet walks and not-so-quiet family walks. I am grateful for playground memories and chaotic family dinners.

I am grateful for hurdles I’ve faced and overcome, as they have taught me, strengthened me, enriched me, and often allowed me to aid others facing similar challenges. I’m grateful for my sense of humor. I’m grateful for my personal gifts and for my weaknesses, as they make me who I am and keep me humble. I am grateful for my resilience. I am grateful for my toughness.

I am grateful for having been born who I am, where I am. I am grateful for the bad days because they make the good days shine brighter. I am grateful for my mistakes because they’ve forced me to change, grow, and learn. I’m grateful for pain because it makes wellness and comfort more notable.

I am grateful to have a home. I am grateful to have a husband and children. I am grateful for their health. I am grateful for my infertility battle as it made me a more appreciative parent than I may have otherwise been and it enhanced my life perspective. I am grateful that battle is in the past.

I am grateful for my educational background. I am grateful for the ability to send my children to school. I am grateful for our means. I am grateful for our monetary struggles, as they keep us humble. I am grateful for our challenges — past and present — as they have and will continue to shape us into a stronger family unit and help us appreciate the good.

I am grateful for it all.

What are you grateful for?

To-do List vs. Reality

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What my brain thinks I can do within a 26-hour window of time is significantly more, I’ve learned, than what I am actually capable of doing. Especially with a highly mobile, descruction-loving, boob-barnacle 15-month-old in tow.

Once a month my 5-year-old and 3.5-year-old head to my parents’ for an overnight. My parents love it. The kids love it. The Hubs and I love it. The 15-month-old thinks it’s time to binge-breastfeed.

The week prior to the sleepover I mentally construct and weed through my to-do list. (Most of this happens when I’m nursing at 3am.) I have learned that I can only count on accomplishing 1 big to-do list task or 1 medium to-do list task and a smattering of small tasks. This means strategy is required in selecting the exact tasks to place on the sleepover docket.

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My original, wishful, unrestricted sleepover to-do list for this month looked like this:

Big Tasks: 1) Sort through coat closet and reorganize it with a double hanging rod, 2) Donate the growing heap of stuff on the dining room table, 3) Clean the deck, 4) Organize the garage, 5) Clean the inside of the minivan, 6) Clean my closet, 7) Organize the kids’ outgrown clothes

Small Tasks: 1) Go to a store to purchase 4 birthday gifts for upcoming parties, 2) Go to Ulta to purchase Halloween make-up, 3) Go to Target, 4) Purchase my Halloween costume-making stuff, 5) Fold and put away laundry, 6) Set out the week’s outfits for the kids, 7) Do a workout DVD, 8) Buy new curtains

Social Plans: 1) Dinner out with The Hubs, 2) Walk with mom friends

Hahahaha! No.

This is what I actually accomplished after the 15-month-old decided the first 5 hours were dedicated breastfeeding time and refused to nap.

Big Tasks: 1) Sorted through coat closet (sans reorganization with a double hanging rod), 2) Cleaned the deck (only because The Hubs kindly took over this task entirely… thank you!!), 3) Grabbed a handful of trash and an assortment of odds-and-ends from the minivan after searching for a Post-it note in the center console

Small Tasks: 1) Used Amazon to purchase 4 partial birthday gifts for upcoming parties, 2) Went to Ulta and purchased Halloween make-up, 3) Folded (but did not put away) laundry, 6) Set out the week’s outfits for the kids

Social Plans: 1) Dinner out with The Hubs

Oh, reality, you’re a bitch.

So, next time you see my crumb-dusted minivan with everything from swim floaties to winter mittens scrambled inside, my baskets overfilled with teetering towers of folded laundry, my dining room table donation heap, and my worn and stained curtains (with one set on the floor because the 3.5-year-old tried to twirl in them Cirque du Soleil style), know that at least my coat closet is half-cleaned, dammit!

A Mother’s Fear: When Your Child Counters Social Norms

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I’m scared. And I’m mad about it.

My middle son is 3.5-years old. He loves Barbies and helicopters, chicken nuggets and bananas, princesses and unicorns, cuddles and story time, barreling down hills on his tricycle and playing trucks in the dirt, styling doll hair and layering on piles of dress-ups. He is himself. He is unique. He is fun and quirky and empathetic and can very often be a gigantic pain in the ass, as any preschool-aged middle child should be.

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As my son navigates this world I am increasingly fearful. Not of academic prowess and parent-teacher conferences, but of the outside world squashing him. Of him being judged, bullied, belittled, and being made to feel lesser or wrong for his preferences… whatever they may be.

I fear this push to change will not just be delivered by his peers or by strangers, but by extended family and people he considers friends. I fear him being embarrassed by who he is, feeling inferior or wrong because he may not fit some abstract mold that makes others feel comfortable in their social constructs. I fear he’ll hide himself or worse yet, hate himself.

Do I think his preschooler toy choices are indicative of his gender or sexuality? No. Do I think the outside world does? Yep. Do I care if my son is  gay, straight, asexual, pansexual, trans, bi, or whatever else? No but yes. I don’t care because he is my son and I love him unconditionally. Who he loves or how he self-identifies does not impact my love for him. There is nothing I could — or would — do to influence or change his identity. It is a part of him and I love him. It is entirely independent of me. It is entirely intrinsic to him.

Nevertheless, I do care about however he self-identifies because this world is full of both beautifully amazing people and loathsome bigots, as well as those who think they’re holy or helpful but are really just insecure. So, as much as I strive to surround myself and my children with good, accepting, loving people I know the judgmental lot is present. That scares me.

Criticism from even the inner circle creeps through when your son dons a tutu. “That’s too much,” “You shouldn’t allow that,” “He should play with this instead,” “I got him the superheroes because he’s a boy and her the princesses because she’s a girl,” “That’s not for boys.” Little digs that others may not even register burrow deep. One statement or insinuation alone may seem imperceptible but when lumped with the collection, it’s impossible to ignore.

The misunderstanding, the judgment, the desire to change, fix, undo is palpable. This is my son though. He is perfectly imperfect just as he is.

Whether my son loses all interest in princesses by age 5 or decides he wants to be a professional Lady Gaga impersonator, it should be HIS choice. It should be up to him to continue or dismiss his interests. It should never be up to Aunt So-and-So or Bobby from down the street. They can live their own lives as they choose. My son’s life is for HIM to live; he only gets one.

I worry often and greatly about pressure from myopic, insecure, misguided outsiders. I worry they will crush his spirit, make him change himself to fit their expectations — to make them feel better or more comfortable — instead of thriving in his uniqueness. I worry I am not encouraging him to adjust just enough to squeak beneath their radar. I worry that I am implying he should adjust at all.

But, as a mother of a growing son, what can I do? I cannot always shield and protect him. I can bolster him and help him feel secure enough to hopefully withstand some of the battering winds. I can teach him to be resilient and independent. I can encourage his self-esteem and moral fortitude. Eventually, though, he will have to stand alone and decide. Without me.

Whatever he enjoys, however he identifies, I hope he does so for himself. I hope he never thinks I would want him to be any other way than exactly the way he is. I hope he shuts out the naysayers and amplifies his supporters. This is his life. He should live it.

Packing Away the Pack-and-Play

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Slow down, time!! Yesterday I packed away the pack-and-play for perhaps the last time. I washed all of the car seat / stroller toys and burp cloths for perhaps the last time. I stowed away the big highchair for perhaps the last time.

Not cool.

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15-month-old #3

I’m thrilled to greet this fun new stage of brimming independence in our 15-month-old. He’s walking and communicating, climbing and playing, asserting himself and overflowing with personality, mimicking and learning. It is a truly precious stage.

I wouldn’t wish it away. I certainly wouldn’t wish ourselves back to newborn days, but packing away the baby items is a reminder of the fleeting nature of childhood… of parenthood.

These are the golden days of my maternal career. The days crawl by in a haze of snacks, drop-offs, pick-ups, tantrums, story times, cuddles, potty trips, giggles, and timeouts. The years whizz by in a flurry of memories, mental snapshots, growth spurts, new skills, developmental bursts, and increasing independence.

I don’t want to reverse time. I just want to slow it down. Where’s my pause button?

The Non-Clique Mom

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I suck at cliques. I know why people like them, how they develop, and the benefits of being a part of one. I wish I could, but I can’t do it.

As a kid, I was shy. I would have a few very close friends but I often felt lonely because of my tiny selection of friends. So, I became adept at amusing myself when they were unavailable.

In middle school, I actively left a clique when I was instructed to shun someone who had done no wrong to me. Even then I considered such a demand inconceivable.

Then, as a teen, I branched out. I became a part of a clique. That was comfy in the new high school setting but, soon, I began reaching beyond the clique’s boundaries. I had a pal or two from various social circles. The diversity was lovely but I felt like a man without a country. I had no tribe to which I belonged.

Still, being free from the melodrama, the pledges of fielty, and the petty skirmishes of cliques was nice. I also felt morally at ease because I was not participating in (intentional or unintentional) exclusion by way of participating in clique culture.

As a college student, I was so focused on my studies that I didn’t put much effort into making friends. As in grade school, I had a few close friends, but certainly no herd. However, I was so busy that I didn’t put much thought into it.

As a mom of a baby and two preschoolers, I developed a variety of beautiful friendships with moms whose paths never intertwined. The friendships were selected and nurtured without societal pressures. The relationships developed naturally and grew organically. What wonderful mom friends these ladies are! True treasures.

Now, as a mom of an elementary schooler, I am entering familiar territory: the maternal version of high school. The parents are all friendly but you can see the cliques as they form on the sidewalk at pick-up. Circles of similarly attired women chatting, leaving untethered stragglers between the gabbing bundles.

Often, I inadvertently find myself amidst a herd. I enjoy the company, appreciate the individuals, and relish the community, but I feel the tug of my conscience (and by “tug” I mean choke-hold yank.) By standing within the herd I am silently signaling to others that they exist outside of the circle. That they do not belong. My conscience is such a party-pooper.

I note the free-floating mom at the periphery. I step away from the clique and engage the free agent. I want her to feel included, welcome, safe, and appreciated. If I could bring every shy, intimidated, and/or unfamiliar mom into the safe fold of a clique I would. Unfortunately, that’s not how cliques work.

I’ve found out the hard way that bringing in too many “strays” is unwelcome behavior. It’s not quite as bad as not agreeing to shun someone who has wronged a clique member (you, yourself, were not offended but one of your comrades was), but it’s still up there. I am guilty of both misdeeds and always will be. It’s who I am. Those are my morals. Take me  or leave me. And so I don’t do cliques, as lonely and irksome, yet conscience-pleasing as it may be. I can only exist as a honorary member… as someone with one foot inside the clique boundaries and one foot on the outside.

“Good for you!” “Do you!” “Way to be inclusive!” Some of you may be thinking. Yes, thank you. That’s lovely. “Make things simpler for yourself!” “Just abide by the rules!” “Be a part of the clique!” Some of you may be thinking. And you’re right. But I really don’t have a choice in the matter. This is simply the way I’m wired.

As much as I own who I am, my personal moral constructs, and my perspective, part of me wishes I could be the person who easily and comfortably acquiesces into a clique. The protection, the comraderie, the cohesiveness all seem so comfortable and safe. To walk into a room and immediately know: “I belong there,” seems so much simpler than reading a crowd. I see why people enjoy cliques, I see the benefits of cliques, I see why some thrive in and seek out cliques. I get it! It’s just not me, whether I like it or not.

Look for me floating about periphery bobbing from mom-huddle to outlier and back again like a pinball. A mom without a clique.

Day in the Life of a SAHM

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We’re just three weeks into the school year and I’m doggie-paddling. Anyone else feel like they’re this close to drowning? Anyone?

It may not sound like much but managing a half-day preschool calendar and a full-day kindergarten calendar along with a 1-year-old’s routine, household duties, and a breast pumping schedule for milk donation has me harried. I am still new to this regiment and — full disclosure — it’s tearing me limb from limb. And we don’t even have homework or extracurricular activities yet, people!

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This is a glimpse at my average weekday schedule:

5:00/5:30am: 1-year-old wakes to nurse.

5:45am: Put 1-year-old back to bed or bring him downstairs with me (depending on how early he feels like waking.)

6:00am: Eat an apple and drink green tea while I pump. Catch up on news, check social media, and edit the blog while I moo.

6:40am: Done pumping. Clean pump parts, put lunchboxes I filled yesterday into backpacks, set out shoes (and jackets, if needed), and put out breakfasts I made the day before. Pour myself a second cup of tea and head upstairs to get ready. Husband (aka: The Hubs) lumbers downstairs around now, unless the 1-year-old awoke him a bit earlier, and brews coffee while starting his work-from-home workday.

6:55am: 1-year-old is in the tub beside my vanity playing while I get ready. I switch between doing my hair and make-up and ensuring he doesn’t try to eat the bathtub drain.

7:15am: 1-year-old is done with the tub. Time to get him dried and dressed.

7:20am: Wake up kindergartener. Race back to my bathroom to finish up the last bits of my morning routine before she calls me to do her hair.

7:25am: Kindergartener is dressed. I play hairstylist.

7:27am: 1-year-old is causing mayhem so I ask The Hubs to fetch him.

7:30am: Kindergartener heads downstairs to eat breakfast. Preschooler is awake and headbutting his bedroom door.

7:35: Preschooler is pottied, dressed, brushed, and coifed. He heads downstairs for breakfast.

7:40am: I go downstairs dragging a hamper of dirty laundry.

7:43am: Start the laundry. Start to tidy the kitchen. Someone needs help with something (baby gate, breakfast, wardrobe malfunction.) Take my vitamins. Blend my smoothie that was prepped the day before and transfer it into my straw cup. Breastfeed 1-year-old while giving the kindergartener a 2-minute warning before it’s time to leave. The Hubs goes upstairs to get dressed.

7:45am: The Hubs is dressed. Kisses, love, wishes for a good day, and reminders to be a friendly friend. The Hubs and kindergartener leave for morning drop-off.

7:50am: Breastfeeding 1-year-old because he got distracted with big sister’s exit. Preschooler demands a snack though he’s holding his half-eaten breakfast while wearing a princess costume.

8:00am: Tidy kitchen. Clean smoothie mixing vessel. Rinse pump parts and clean up breakfast aftermath. Prepare prechooler’s snack after collecting his empty breakfast plate.

8:02am: 1-year-old wants a snack too. Prepare his snack.

8:05am: Now I’m peckish. I pour a small bowl of hippie cereal (seeds, buckwheat groats, dried berries, coconut flakes, and cashewmilk) and sit down with the mug of cold tea I forgot to bring upstairs with me.

8:10am: I’m sitting and eating cereal. Catching up on social media and/or local news. Playroom scuffle breaks out. Scoop the last bites of hippie cereal down my gullet on the way to referee the brawl.

8:15am: Playroom peace attained. I check the oven clock. How the HELL is it only 8:15?!? I check my phone. Yep… 8:15. Shit. I clean up my cereal and unload the dishwasher.

8:30am: In the playroom reading with the minions.

8:35am: Clean-up time (code for: tot coup d’etat)

8:39am: Playroom moderately tidied. 1-minute warning to departure for preschool drop-off. I head to the kitchen to fill my water bottle and notice my smoothie sweating on the counter. Oh right, I made a smoothie! (Like I do every. Single. Day.) I put the smoothie next to my water bottle and keys to bring with me. Then change 1-year-old’s diaper.

8:40am: Drama ensues because leaving the house must always involve chaos and yelling. Always.

8:43am: Boys are in the car, shoes on (so help me!), and buckled into their car seats. I flop into the driver’s seat trying to remember what it was like when all I had to do to leave the house was put on my shoes, grab my keys, and leave. The mental file is too outdated… file not found.

8:50am: We arrive at the school early because I’m a type-A pain-in-the-ass who fears arriving late. We wait for 3 minutes in the car before starting the unbuckling routine. Meanwhile, I drink my now-melted smoothie.

8:58am: Preschooler is kissed, wished a good day, and signed in. I chat with some familiar faces then head to the car, 1-year-old riding on my hip.

9:01am: Get in the car and head either to Target or the grocery store since no other fruitful destinations are open at this time. On storytime days, Target is our destination.

9:20am: Arrive at Target. Pop 1-year-old in the Ergo 360 and off we go.

9:25am: 1-year-old is peckish. He nurses in the Ergo while I grab paper goods and eye all the women’s fashion section from afar. Target is now my fashion magazine. Oh, wide-leg jeans are back in!

9:38am: Checked out, paid, buckled in, still parked, I grab my phone and add something to the grocery list that I just remembered we need. (Thank you, Wegmans app!)

9:55am: We arrive at storytime before the library even opens (see 8:50am time slot for reasoning.) 1-year-old is chilling in his car seat so I turn up the music and check email and Instagram while we sit. I remember I need to schedule a pediatrician well-check… mental reminder. Then I realize I should probably drink more water, so I chug.

10:05am: Heading into storytime, the cereal and smoothie and water have caught up to me. Pee break in a public restroom while holding my 1-year-old: amateur contortion.

10:10am: 1-year-old is enjoying free reign of the children’s section. He keeps a close eye on the doors to the storytime room.

10:30am: The doors open. 1-year-old charges in. Storytime!

11:05am: Heading home for lunch.

11:15am: Wash hands then microwave last night’s leftovers for lunch while the 1-year-old shrieks out of sheer starvation, unless The Hubs (who generally works from home) had a slower morning and was able to heat up lunch.

11:30am: Eat lunch and rehash the morning with The Hubs.

11:40am: Clean up lunch and set up tea kettle to brew.

11:45am: Head upstairs to change 1-year-old and nurse him for naptime.

12:05pm: If I’m lucky, the 1-year-old is finally asleep and I can head downstairs to pour a cup of tea and set up my breast pump. If he’s not asleep, I’m still in the glider being milked.

12:45pm: The Hubs kindly leaves to pick up the preschooler.

1:10pm: I’m cleaning pump parts and bagging milk when the preschooler arrives home. He potties, scrubs his hands, and goes down for a nap.

1:15pm: I pour my second cup of tea and sit down with great aspirations of ass-sitting. Instead, I make the grocery list and meal plan, check my calendar, scout weekend activities, call the pediatrician to make the well-check, and check email.

1:30pm: One of the boys awakes. They’re not supposed to be up until 2pm but, gosh darn it, one or both of them nearly always awakes now. I remember the load of laundry in the washer as I go to collect the early riser. I transfer it to the dryer before I go upstairs.

2:00pm: Naptime is over. A part inside me cries… another potentially restful naptime lost. Back to snack-making and kid-wrangling.

2:15pm: Feed the boys a snack, figure out a car ride snack for the kindergartener and the neighbor girl we drive home, and tidy the inexplicably messy kitchen.

2:30pm: Start getting everyone ready for kindergarten pick-up. Drama — as always — upon our departure.

2:45pm: We pull into the school parking lot. (School doesn’t let out for another 30 minutes but, I think you know by now that this is how I roll.)

2:50pm: The boys play out front with other younger siblings while I simultaneously chat with fellow parents and fish acorns and rocks from my 1-year-old’s mouth.

3:15pm: The kindergartener and neighbor girl head our way.

3:30pm: Everyone is noshing on granola bars and rehashing the day’s events as we exit the school parking lot.

3:40pm: Home. Shoes off. Hands scrubbed. A small snack is served at the heathens’ demand while I clean out the lunchbox and review evening expectations: any papers, homework, items of note? The kindergartener regales us with details of her day. We listen.

4:00pm: Kindergartener heads to her room for quiet time. Preschooler tries to join her but must stay downstairs instead. You want to watch “The Little Memaid” for the 456734th time? Will it make it so you won’t try to sneak upstairs to make fart noises outside of your sister’s bedroom door? Fine. I start dinner, lunch, and breakfast prep. Kids pepper me with: “Can I have a snack?”, “Can we go outside now?”, “Is it dinnertime yet?” The answer is “no.”

5:00pm: Dinner. Everyone is excited and claims they will eat every morsel.

5:20pm: Everyone except for the preschooler has finished dinner. The dinner drama ensues during dinner clean-up and morning prep. Start the dishwasher.

5:45pm: If the preschooler hasn’t finished now, it’s too late. Playroom time to let dinner settle. I breastfeed the 1-year-old while checking social media, email, check in with friends about this life event or that, and check the next day’s calendar.

6:00pm: Wrangle all of the kids outside to play.

6:40pm: Everyone comes inside. I throw the dry laundry into a laundry basket and put it in the family room (where it will sit mocking me for at least 2 days… or until I run out of laundry baskets and am forced to fold it along with three other laundry heaps.)

6:45pm: Playroom clean-up (always a pleasant experience… like a root canal without painkillers.) The Hubs showers and, once I can see the playroom floor, the kids and I do storytime.

7:00pm: The Hubs supervises the kindergartener’s shower and the preschooler’s bath. I get the 1-year-old in pajamas and nurse him before bed. I peruse Pinterest and plan playdates or outings with friends while breastfeeding my sleepy 1-year-old.

7:40pm: 1-year-old is in bed. I shower.

7:50pm: On the sofa with my giant bottle of fizzy water, my breast pump, and The Hubs to watch one of our shows (presently, “Narcos”) then chat about the day before heading up to bed.

9:30pm: I set my alarm for way-too-damn’-early o’clock but know I won’t even need the alarm because of my 1-year-old.

And I do it all again tomorrow.

 

 

Our NICU Story

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In honor of NICU (Neonatal Intensive Care Unit) Awareness Month, I am sharing our NICU experience. It is because of the NICU that our daughter was successfully breastfed. More precisely, it was because of one tough but amazing NICU nurse. As a result of her efforts, our daughter successfully breastfed for 18 months, I then went on to breastfeed my middle son for 22 months, I am still nursing my youngest at 14.5 months, and have helped nourish 20 other children with my donated breastmilk.

Without the dedicated NICU nurses, my journey may have been entirely different. For their patience, caring, and tireless work I am eternally grateful.

This is our NICU story.

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After a traumatic vaginal birth (details here) during which our debated 36- or 37-week gestation daughter coded and required resuscitation, then choked in the nursery, and experienced an unknown time period without oxygen, we were NICU parents.There were tests and physical exams, monitors and machines, jaundice concerns and lamentations over the physical and cognitive aftermath of our daughter’s oxygen deprivation. However, what I remember most vividly through the sleep-deprived memory haze is the breastfeeding battle. Despite having nursed well immediately after birth — the nurses noted the surprising amount of colostrum they discovered when our daughter choked — latching and nursing became a massive struggle once our daughter was admitted to the NICU.

Too weak and injured from the gruesome birth to walk independently to the NICU, every 1.5 hours I was wheeled from my room to my daughter’s bedside. I was engorged and each feeding worsened my pain and frustration. My breasts were sore and swollen. My child — bruised, puffy, and cone-headed from the birth — was incensed. I attempted to feed her for 30 minutes each time but always held her for an additional 15 minutes because I just couldn’t let go. This left me with only 90 minutes between feedings… day and night. Each feeding was the same: both of us crying, both of us agitated, both of us exhausted, both of us feeling helpless. What was supposed to be the most natural human experience was beyond us.

“Try sitting in the rocking chair,” the nurses encouraged, but even with two pillows beneath me, I could not shift or maneuver to simultaneously nurse and not inflame my vaginal wounds on the wooden chair. In our little curtained alcove in the chirping, bleating, whirring NICU, I awkwardly perched on my nest of pillows in the hard communal chair, feeling like a leaky, exhausted, bleeding, pummled version of the Princess and the Pea.

By day 2 I was able to cautiously walk from my room in the Maternity Ward to the NICU. There, I tried over and over to nurse. We used different chairs, different pillow arrangements, different positions. I’d prep myself with numbing spray and ice packs in my giant hospital-issue underwear before awkwardly waddle-shuffling through the ward to nurse my child.

Finally, one NICU nurse took the reins. She was a small middle-aged woman with short brown curls, glasses, and a palpable toughness about her. She was a force… she scared the crap out of me. Fortunately, the NICU gods smiled upon me, and this seasoned and calloused nurse identified with me. I reminded her of her own expectant daughter.

She suggested we try nursing in my room instead of in the NICU. “It would be less stressful for you,” she explained. She said she’d get the doctor’s approval. She did.

Starting that evening, every 1.5 hours, a nurse would unhook my daughter temporarily from her monitors, wheel my daughter’s clear plastic bassinet into my hospital room and 45 minutes later, my husband would wheel her back to the NICU. This was a more comfortable option, but not entirely successful. My daughter could latch but not for long.

By 3am, things fell apart. Days of little rest and no REM sleep left my husband and me in an irritated zombie state. The crying baby, the breast pain, the swollen everything, the frustration, the exhaustion, the ignorance, the fear, the trauma… it all bubbled over. It was too much. We fought. I don’t even remember why or over what. No one won.

When the sun rose, the tough-but-kind NICU nurse wheeled my daughter into my room. She was checking on me. I told her I was having feeding trouble. She offered to help. For the first time in my prudish life, I didn’t care at all that a stranger was manhandling my breast. I just wanted relief… to feed my child for longer than 2-minute stretches.

Repositioning, compressing, unlatching and relatching… we worked to find a solution. “You’re engorged,” she explained. “You have so much milk that your daughter cannot effectively latch. It’s like trying to latch onto an overfilled balloon. Then, once she does latch, she’s trying to drink from a fire hose.” She handed me a nipple shield, she mixed formula in a tiny dish, and used a syringe to apply two droplets on the tip of the shield. “Try this.” She moved and squished pillows, positioned my daughter just so… success!

The nurse then taught me how to hand-express a bit of milk in order to coat the tip of the nipple shield. “She won’t always need this,” she said, “but it helps her now.”

Every feeding, I’d squeeze my Shrek-like preeclampsia feet into my previously roomy sandals, ice and numb my sewn-together nether regions, waddle-shuffle across the ward to the NICU with my sitting pillows under my arm, scrub from fingertip to elbow in the communal NICU sink, close the curtain to our NICU alcove, arrange my pillows in the wooden rocking chair, carefully lower myself into my nest, express a bit of milk, use one drop to help suction the nipple shield to my breast and two drops to coat the shield tip, signal to my exhausted husband to hand me our black-and-blue daughter, latch our daughter onto my breast, feed her, unlatch her, burp her, snuggle her, hand her to my husband to place her in the plastic bassinet, clean the nipple shield in the communal sink, and waddle-shuffle her back to the NICU with my pillows under my arm.

By day 4, we had developed a rhythm. We were also on our last day in the hospital. “You will be discharged today,” explained the NICU nurse. My heart sank. “I will try to get your daughter discharged too.” My husband and I were terrified. In my mind, exiting that hospital without my daughter after having experienced that delivery would mortally wound me. It was an inconceivable option. It was a non-option.

Test results poured in that day. The formerly-scary NICU nurse reviewed each one. Jaundice was a sticking point but our daughter was borderline. The nurse briefed us in our curtained alcove as I breastfed. She prepped us for newborn home care because she was determined to send us home with our baby. She did not want one thing delaying us. Not one checkmark standing in our way. She was my NICU mama bear.

My husband and I, with sleep-deprived, first-time-parent minds, couldn’t process the information. We simply nodded and grunted. Then came the pediatrician assessment. This was the deciding moment. If he didn’t sign off, our daughter stayed.

The NICU nurse promised to call us in as soon as the pediatrician got there. She did.

As the bald-headed, towering, gruff pediatrician made his rounds, the nurse whispered to us not to worry. That she’d make this happen. She did.

At every pause she insinuated that our daughter was capable of going home. After every question asked of her, she lead to the logical next step of discharge. Having completed his assessment, the burly doctor exhaled a deep sigh and a pensive grumble. “She can go.”

The NICU nurse made it happen. She made it all happen. That day, the three of us went home together. From the bottom of my heart, thank you, Louise!

 

Germs: What I Wish I Could Tell My First-Time-Mom Self

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There are many things I wish I could tell my first-time-mom self to lessen my self-induced stress. As someone who had 3 kids in 4 years, I had a steep and steady learning curve. With my first I fought things like rearranging night hang-out time with the Hubs, needing to sometimes wake Baby from a nap, and exposing our child to germs. By the third kid, these were no longer limitations but expectations.

Me and #1

Me and #1

I look back and wish I could have calmed myself. That I could tell myself all that I know now. However, I am fully aware that I never would have listened back then. I needed to learn it and live it for myself. Still, these are the things I wish I could say to five-years-ago me, if only to lessen my burden.

1) Fevers seem scarier than they are. Generally speaking, for a healthy child, a fever is a sign that the body is doing its job. The the immune system is at work. Unless notable lethargy and dehydration are observed, just: comfort, cuddle, and chill. 102F may seem awful as an adult but an otherwise healthy 1-year-old can spike a 104F temperature without medical intervention. (Note: Of course one should always follow one’s intuition and adhere to the pediatrician’s protocol.)

2) Germs aren’t all bad. Protecting your newborn from the flu: reasonable. Incessantly sanitizing your toddler: questionable. Panicking when your tot eats a little dirt: dubious. Avoiding public play spaces and shopping carts with a healthy kid for fear of germs: ludicrous. Kids are germy. Kids get germs. Germs can make them sick. Getting sick bolsters their immunity. Germs aren’t all bad. I’m not saying go lick the snot-nosed kid with the rash, but an otherwise healthy 1-year-old with a cough is not catastrophic. Sure, it semi-sucks for the parents for a bit, but that’s not new. If you can survive the 4-month sleep regression, you can handle Hand-Foot-and-Mouth. Childhood illnesses — Coxsackie, Roseola, Fifth’s Disease, a standard cold — they’re crummy viruses that make a kid (and, subsequently, his or her guardians) feel temporarily uncomfy but then it’s nothing but a memory. After conquering the malady, the child is better equipped for future encounters, and so are the parents. Germs are simply a part life… especially life with kids. Fighting it will only rob you and your child of some of the purest childhood joys. Accept germs and move on.

3) Don’t cancel because of a cold. If your child is not an infant and is generally healthy, there’s no need to enact a quarantine due to a standard cold. Sniffles, a cough, mucus, maybe some mild fussiness… this is doable. Always tell the other playdate parent ahead of time if you or your child have a cold, thus allowing the other parent to choose for him or herself whether or not exposure is right for their family, but don’t just cancel at the first sign of boogers. It’s a cold not Typhus.

4) Don’t expect to sleep when Baby is sick. You’re a parent, which means that sleep is now a privelge not a right. If Baby is sick and allows you to snooze, great! Count that as a bonus. If not, consider it training for future sleep regressions. It’ll suck. You’ll live. Caffeinate and keep it moving

5) It’s temporary. Everything in parenthood is temporary. Everything. Every phase (good or bad), every stage (fun or loathsome), every moment  (magical or torturous), every routine… all of it. Remember that during the good, the bad, and the monotonous. Don’t sully the good by fretting the bad. Survive the muck and savor the magic.

 

Personal Style Crisis

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It happens every time. Some time around when Baby starts walking, I have a personal style crisis.

2016-09-05 08.49.47

The problem is I have certain wardrobe demands: function (nursing-friendly and washable), flatter (highlights the right parts and downplays the other parts), and fit (not too short, too tight, too baggy, too restrictive… basically not “too” anything.) Boob access is still a requirement, as my 1-year-old still nurses on demand, so that rules out most dresses and many tops. I’ve lost the baby weight, so my postpartum wardrobe of roomy tunics and tummy-smoothing leggings are unappealing. However, I have a new body shape after having grown, carried, delivered, and nourished another human. It’s like being a teenager learning to dress all over again, but this time with a c-section scar and leaky breasts. I’m lost.

I hit up online stores — because shopping for clothes with my troublesome trio is more chaotic than constructive — and peruse Pinterest. I pin with abandon. Striped t-shirt dresses topped with jean jackets, skater dresses and motorcycle jackets, jeans and Ts with military jackets… cute and comfy but not exactly nursing-friendly (lest I stretch out every hem and neckline.)

Every morning, I reluctantly enter my closet. I feel utterly underwhelmed by my heaping mishmash of clothing sizes from 4 to 12. The clothes archive where I’ve been in size and life season — newlywed young adult, corporate cubicle-dweller, working mom, pregnant mom, newly postpartum mom, breastfeeding mom, exercising mom, socializing mom — but it doesn’t quite define me now.

Those dark wash flare jeans three sizes too big, those business-casual trousers, those tummy-flattening leggings… not me. The corporate blouses, the exercise tanks, the billowy cotton tunics… nope. The suede flats, the towering wedge knee-high boots, the platform heels… ha!

So, I consider hauling up my bin of old stand-bys. The plastic box labeled “Caitlin’s Non-Nursing Clothes” full of Gap v-neck Ts, Target tank tops, neutral sweaters, and striped boatneck tops. The style equivalent of a sigh.

“What in my closet makes me happy?” I ask myself. My vibrant Flying Tomato maxi skirts. Without a doubt, they are my favorites. Still, one can only wear them so often.

Part of me wants to overhaul my closet. Raze the mass of unflattering, unfitting, unsuitable fabric and start fresh. But what would I wear in place of it all? How would I possibly afford to replace it? Three printed skirts and a handful of nursing camis cannot a wardrobe make.

Back to Pinterest I go. Maybe I’ll find myself on another’s Pintrest board. Until then, I’ll feign an intense daily exercise regiment by donning active wear.

 

“Last Year” Mom Guilt

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Last night just as I drifted towards dreamland a realization startled me into teary wakefulness: this is my last year with a baby at home. Next year, all three children will be in school. I will not have a child constantly in tow. I am not ok with this. Let me repeat, I AM NOT OK WITH THIS.

Nope. Too fast. Too, too fast.

Cue the mom guilt. Guilt that I missed so much time with #1 and #2 because I was working part-time. Guilt that I don’t work part-time with #3 because that means my mom (my childcare provider) hasn’t gotten to bond with him as she did with #1 and #2, guilt that I get frustrated. Guilt that I don’t spend enough individual time with each child. Guilt that sometimes I need a break. Guilt that it all went by so quickly and I must be losing memory capacity because it went by too fast. Guilt that I didn’t babywear with #1 and #2 like I do with #3. Guilt that I have bad days. Guilt that I’m ok with being “mean mom” (because being a passive parent seems much sweeter). Guilt that sometimes I just want to zone out on social media instead of playing princess-rockstar-doctor with the kids. Guilt… so much guilt.

The shoddy mom thoughts started. You know the ones. The nit-picky negative swell of self-defeating insults that sabotage any maternal confidence.

“Stop!” I told myself. This is pointless. I am a human parenting humans; things will not be perfect. I will falter, they will falter, life will move on. I just need to try to learn from mistakes, try to do better, offer love and support as best I can, teach my children to be decent humans, give myself breaks so I can offer the better parts of myself, and be there… just be there.

I took a deep breath and refocused. I allowed my mind to replay the slideshow of “last year before preschool” memories from #1 and #2’s baby years. Tears fell. My heart swelled. I drifted off to sleep.

This will be my last year with a baby at home. I will enjoy it.