Momspiration

Retraining Myself to be Positive

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So, I’ve been in a slump lately. I was fatigued, negative, edgy, and not very kind to myself. Something just felt out of alignment.

At first I thought I’d been indoors too much since my eldest two have been at summer camp during the day. So I got outside more, made sure I focused on hydration, got some exercise, socialized… the basics. No change.

I took some time to really listen to myself. To tend to that rattling in the back of my mind that often gets lost amidst the daily tantrums and skirmishes, to-do lists, and meal planning. I realized I was processing my eldest child’s progression into kindergarten, to her becoming a 5-year-old. Since her impending birthday was the anniversary of her birth, I was also revisiting her traumatic birth. Old wounds that had never fully healed but had been forgotten amidst the daily grind were calling out for attention.

Now that I knew the problem, I could seek resolution. I wrote my post about my traumatic birth experience. It was challenging to write but cathartic. However, it brought that back-of-mind swirling to the forefront and, let’s be honest, that sucks.

Knowing this was a healthy part of the healing process, I released my mind to circle the memories, to relive, to process. Without this allowance, I would have subconsciously stewed and remained in a lopsided, anxious state, unable to attain harmony. So, I sacrificed a few days to the cause.

This morning, while driving to the grocery store, I could feel the negativity within me. I’d allowed it sanctuary for long enough. As I drove up the tall slope of the exit ramp, I noted the blue of the sky, the sun, the trees, the beauty in the everyday. “Be light,” I thought, “breathe out darkness.” With that, I took a deep breath, held it, and released. Once more… inhaled, held, released. Then, I smiled. I felt the light within me grow. “Be positive. Feel positive. Experience positive.”

I remembered how a simple errand can be perceived entirely differently purely based on one’s mental state. I reminded myself of that as I entered the store. I focused on my vibe… on emitting positivity and acceptance. I knew my vibe would dictate my experience. I smiled, I nodded, I said, “hello.” It felt good.

I hit a minor stumbling block: a woman absent-mindedly stopped her cart in the center of the aisle and walked away. At first, I felt irritation brew within me. “No,” I thought, “be positive.” So, I backed up my own cart and went down another aisle. “I’m in no real rush. I can walk extra steps. It’s just more exercise,” I reframed the scenario. “Perhaps there’s a reason I should go this way.”

I maintained my mental exercise and the longer I did it the better I felt. The more natural it became. My comfortable rhythm was returning.

I’m still a work in progress and not universally positive — my kids would likely counter that I employ strict standards and a “mean mommy voice” regularly — but I am OK with being “mean mommy” because it is, at the very root, out of love. I want my children to known boundaries and to acknowledge that their actions have reprocussions. However, outside of maintaining structure and discipline, I try to stay positive. I strive to be harmonious. When I do, I feel better and more balanced. I thrive when I focus on appreciation, gratitude, exuding light, and being accepting. It’s a journey.

Five Years A Mother

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My eldest child just turned 5-years old today. This means that, for five years I have been a mom, a caregiver, and a 24-hour concierge of sorts. What else does this milestone mean?

– For five years I’ve been perpetually concerned with the well-being of another person more so than my own.

– For five years someone else’s eating, toileting, emotional, and sleep needs have superceded my own.

– For five years I have wiped someone else’s butt multiple times daily.

– For five years I have not been able to quickly and easily leave the house on a whim.

– For five years washability has been a primary deciding factor in all clothing selections.

– For five years I have planned meals around someone else’s needs and/or tastes.

– For five years I have found mystery stains, spots, puddles, or crustiness in my home.

– For five years privacy has been a distant concept.

– For five years I have slept with my mind set to listen for sounds of my offspring in need.

– For five years any story regarding child victims has simultaneously made my heart drop and my eyes well.

– For five years I have not shopped for myself without thinking of, if not prioritizing or also buying for, my children.

– For five years I have not seen baby clothes displays without stopping to touch the fabric.

– For five years I have seen pregnant women and thought, “been there!”

– For five years my relationship with my husband has been entirely different — neither better nor worse, simply different — than before.

– For five years I have been a human tissue.

– For five years the future of our world has been a notable concern.

– For five years trips to the grocery store have been chaotic.

– For five years I have had to carefully consider wardrobe choices when at home.

– For five years solo trips to Target have seemed like a mini-vacation.

– For five years I have had to put away someone else’s laundry.

– For five years I have thought of my parents more as grandparents than as my own parents.

– For five years our home has not been quiet… unless we’re not in it.

– For five years I’ve signed my name as “Mom.”

– For five years people have often asked about how my child is doing before asking about me.

– For five years I’ve had the attention span of a goldfish

– For five years my pre-parenthood interests and concerns have seemed trivial.

– For five years I have tested the storage capacity of my cell phone with photos and videos of someone else.

– For five years each day my blood pressure has soared from frustration and my heart has swelled with love.

– For five years someone else’s sleep has dictated my own.

– For five years I have not been able to make a phone call, or answer a call, at any time I choose.

– For five years I have found experiences absolutely adorable, hilarious, and memorable that my childless self would have regarded as dull, disgusting, or inconsequential.

– For five years poop has been an acceptable and frequent topic of conversation.

– For five years I have had the most love-drenched, patience-testing, anxiety-inducing, exhausting, simultaneously unpredictable-yet-routine, absolutely most rewarding 24/7 no-days-off-ever job. And I adore it (even when I don’t.)

And, as a mother of three, this shocking realization surfaced:

– For six years I have been pregnant, nursing, pumping, or all three.

Motherhood… it changes you. For the better.

My Traumatic Birth Story

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Today is the fifth anniversary of my traumatic birth experience. Only now am I able to see others’ birth photos without feeling lightheaded. Only now am I able to watch birth scenes without getting panicked. It’s been a long journey but a healing and strengthening one.

I no longer have the nightmares, the unexpected flashbacks, or the anxiety waves. I am releasing the anger for what my husband, child, and I endured. I am letting go of the swirling “what ifs?” I am coaching myself through dismissing the jealousy I feel when I hear of others’ smooth, healthy, uncomplicated births. I am denying the self-imposed guilt. I am healing.

Trauma of any kind is an emotional — and often physical — hurdle that takes time, self-awareness, willpower, and strength to overcome. Birth trauma is no different. However, it’s a trauma that’s rarely discussed and hardly acknowledged. As if birth being a natural, common event makes it benign. As if — if you have been so fortunate — the presence of your healthy child negates your entire experience.

I’m sharing my story so that others know they are not alone, that they are not broken, that they are not weak, that there is hope. That it is in their power to move forward. This is my story.

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With my first child I had a traumatic vaginal birth. I had been on bed rest for two weeks due to gestational hypertension. By a debated 36 or 37 weeks, I’d graduated to full on preeclampsia, which was even more concerning due to my congenital (stable and well-monitored) heart defect.

On the morning of July 18, 2011, I began exhibiting labor signs. By 1:00pm my husband and I were walking into the Labor and Delivery ward of our local hospital. I was probably earlier on in labor than I suspected when I arrived at the hospital, but I was a first-time-mom. What did I know?

The nurses checked my blood pressure. “Don’t you dare move,” one told me as I asked to visit the restroom, “you’re ‘this’ far away from a possible stroke!” I stayed in that bed until the evening. Catheterized, contracting, thirsty and hungry, awaiting an eventual epidural, I was told the doctor wanted to break my waters. If not that, we’d need to consider a c-section. My body wasn’t handling labor well.

I was terrified of a c-section, as I’d only ever heard horror stories. I opted for my waters being broken. It didn’t take much as I’d been 2 centimeters dialated and 90% effaced throughout my 2-week bed rest. Labor progressed.

It was 1:30am. The nurse held one foot and my husband held the other. I pushed and I pushed and I pushed. Blood vessels in my eyes popped at the pressure. The doctor came in and looked concerned. “Prep for a section.” She told the nurse and left the room. “No! No c-section. Please!” I implored the nurse. “I’ll talk to the doctor.” The nurse returned moments later. “Let’s get pushing. If we can get this baby far enough down, maybe we can avoid a c-section.” It was go time!

I pushed, we reconfigured stances, I pushed more. I tore. The doctor arrived. More pushing. More tearing. A cut. I pushed, they pulled, the ring of fire… then the monitors showed my baby was in distress.

Eight nurses came racing into the room, one jumped on top of me, told me not to scream as they pushed on my belly. I could feel my wounds burn with every push. The nurse on my chest looked at me with wild eyes and a stern voice, “This baby needs to come out NOW!” We all pushed, the doctor pulled, and out she came. 3:36am. We were all exhausted but it wasn’t over yet.

The nurses rushed my daughter to the exam table. The monitor blocked my view entirely. “Is she OK? Is my baby OK?” I kept asking, but no one answered, no one flinched . It was as if my voice evaporated as soon as it left my mouth.

I birthed the placenta. “Time to clean you up.” The doctor said, but I barely heard her. I was too focused on trying to see my daughter. Trying to glean some shred of information from the huddle of medical staff hovering over my daughter’s body.

I turned to my doctor, who was preparing to sew my torn and cut lower portions. “Is my baby OK?” I asked her. She looked toward the exam table and then to me, her eyes appearing concerned, “You may feel a pinch.” I felt everything.

Local anesthetics tend to be relatively ineffective on me but I couldn’t communicate that now because all I wanted was to know if my daughter was alive. Tears streamed down my exhausted face. I hurt in every possible way but I was stuck on an unfamiliar bed with an unheard voice while being sewn up like a torn shirt

I looked to my husband, who was standing in a mix of shock and terror beside me: “Is she OK?” He asked the nurse. The nurse quickly looked up from her efforts with our baby, “We don’t know.”

Moments later: baby cries. The nurse handed me my under-7lb baby. My daughter’s face was bruised and swollen, her head was elongated and pointed. “Shoulder dystocia,” they told me as I latched her onto my breast. “She choked on fluid.” I stroked her matted brown hair. “She ‘code pinked.'” I grasped her tiny purple hand. “We resuscitated her.”  I held her close as she nursed.

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We later learned that, due to an old injury, my tailbone impeded the exit route. There’s nothing we could have done besides opting for a cesarean section, but no one could have anticipated that precise impediment.

After my daughter unlatched, they wheeled her to the nursery for some assessments while the nurse helped me to the bathroom. It was 5:00am as the nurse wheeled me into my room in the Maternity ward. The sun was beginning to rise. My husband wearily pulled and tugged at the visitor chair to convert it into a bed. He flopped down to try to get some rest. “Your daughter will be in shortly,” the nurse told me as she checked my wires and monitors, “try to sleep.”

I closed my eyes but my mind was still racing. I looked out the window and watched as the sky turned from purple to pink. As the sun rose and the last few clouds were drained of their rosy hue, a nurse came in the room. “Your daughter experienced complications in the nursery, ” she told us. “The doctor will be in soon to tell you more.” My husband and I stared at one another, our traumatized minds hazy from two days without sleep.

An hour later, the pediatrician arrived. He sat down in the corner chair and told us that a nurse in the nursery found our daughter purple and not breathing. She cleared our baby’s airway and resuscitated her. It appeared to be a blockage of colostrum and fluid. They weren’t sure how long our daughter had been without oxygen, if there’d be permanent brain damage, or if she might choke again. She was in the NICU.

The doctor took my husband to see our daughter, as no wheelchairs were yet available for me and I could not dependably walk yet. In that empty room, I cried. I wailed. I mourned. Every bit of pain, exhaustion, and fear poured out of me. Then, drained, I stopped and stared at the white dry erase board on the wall in front of me. I was silent.

Five years later, our daughter is bright, highly verbal, perfectly able-bodied,  and healthy. My husband is healing, as am I, from our experience all those years ago. We’ve come a long way, but we’re still mending. Surviving and savoring our journey together.

 

We Only Get This Summer Once

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Yesterday we were at our local summer concert, enjoying music and the evening sun. Then, a familiar sight that makes my heart thump and my smile grow wide: my eldest two children happily running toward me from across the concert lawn. Heavy breaths through broad smiles, arms outstretched to envelop me in their sweaty hugs, their sneakers pounding through the sun-warmed turf. I saw it.

I saw how different my middle son was from last year. The change from 2-year-old to 3-year-old was striking. He’d lengthened, his face was leaner, his body was taller. I looked to my daughter, bounding toward me, her face more beautiful now than cute, just days away from her 5th birthday. I felt the weight of my 1-year-old in the carrier, no longer the newborn peanut he was last summer. How much they’d changed in just a year! My eyes grew misty and my throat caught.

We have only one summer each year with our children, the next they will be older, bigger, more independent, less mommy-centric. Interests will be different, maturity and skills will have advanced, they’ll push further from us and deeper into the outside world.

As exhausting and tumultuous as the days can be, as wearing and patience-testing as this young stage is, it only happens once. We only get THIS summer once.

Soak it in. Commit it to memory. Smile. Laugh. Enjoy it. Next summer will be entirely different.

Everyday Babywearing Benefits

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I’ve been a stroller-pushing mom and a babywearing mom. Both kid-moving methods have their pros and cons. These are the benefits I’ve encountered while babywearing.

1) Hands-free! Grocery shopping, wrangling kids on a playground, gardening, making dinner, cleaning, folding laundry, doing light weight lifting? Babywearing is the way to go. Two hands, no device to maneuver. Easy!

2) Breastfeed on the go. Is your nursing baby hungry? No prob! Simply adjust your carrier, pop out a boob, latch on the nursling, and keep it moving. Your activities aren’t hindered for more than a moment. Plus, it’s pretty discrete — especially if you employ a cover — if modesty is a concern. (See my post here for more.)

3) Core workout. Every mom loves a good multitasking tip. Most of us also daydream about flat abs and a toned back, or maybe just slightly less marshmallowy goodness to our baby-making center. Enter babywearing… do whatever you need to do while simultaneously strengthening your core. Workout cred while perusing Target? Score!

4) Camouflage. Forgot to put on a bra? Sporting a tapestry of coffee, spit-up, breastmilk leakage, and jelly fingerprints on your shirt? Having one of those days when your postpartum body feels less rock and more roll? Babywearing hides it all!

5) Snoozing baby zen. Got stuff to do but you could really use some blood pressure lowering tranquility? Wear a sleeping baby on your chest and watch even the most irksome of errands seem suddenly inconsequential. Not even and aisle-hogging shopping cart double-parker will get to you. A heck of a lot cheaper than yoga class and fewer calories than a tall glass of wine!

6) Askew accessibility issues. Broken sidewalks, no curb cuts, poorly hinged doors, tight vestibules, narrow walking areas between clothing racks, small bathroom stalls, broken elevator, no sidewalk in a pedestrian-unfriendly area, etc. These are all inexcusable accessibility issues that should certainly be rectified BUT you can opt out of being directly affected by them if you babywear.

7) Germ aversion. Heading somewhere germy or absolutely must go out with a potentially contagious baby (hi, pharmacy run for Pedialyte and Tylenol)? Babywear to shield your little one from offending particles, or others from your tot’s malady. Bonus: if you have a newborn (or immunosuppressed) babe, people are less likely to paw at your offspring when he or she is securely strapped to your chest. Throw a nursing cover or blanket over your infant passenger for extra concealment.

8) Skin-to-skin on the go. Skin-to-skin has numerous health benefits, and not just for newborns. Babywearing allows you to do skin-to-skin regularly while you’re going about your day. Good for Baby’s health, your well-being, and your bonding.

9) Smooch with ease. Want to tousle that duckling-fluff hair, kiss your little nugget’s cheek, or give Peanut a hug… easy! No need to stop a stroller to awkwardly position yourself in front of your child in order to give affection. He’s strapped right to you, so smooch and snuggle away!

10) Be a part of the club. I’m not into exclusivity or cliques, but babywearers belong to a club. We’re like motorcycle riders, who give one another a down-low wave as they pass. We may rock different carrier models, we may range from country club preppy to crunchy hemp granola, but we’ll all give that nod of camaraderie to a fellow babywearer.

My advice: give babywearing a try (visit a babywearing group meeting or borrow a few carriers from friends before deciding or investing.) Give stroller-pushing a try, borrowing from friends and taking test drives of floor models in baby stores. See what works for you. You may be surprised at the outcome.

Whatever you decide, rock it!

10 Things NOT to Pack for a Family Beach Trip

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As a first-time-mom, packing for my child’s first trip to the beach, I overpacked. I packed for the 7-day getaway the way Imelda Marcos did seasonal shoe-shopping. Nearly 5 years and two additonal kids later, these are the top 10 things I have learned not to bother packing when going on a week-long beach vacation.

1) Changing pads: why did I think my little snowflake could only have her diaper changed on a changing pad? Why did I think a towel would not suffice? Ditch the changing pad… your little petunia will do just fine having her drawers freshened on a towel.

2) Numerous perfectly coordinated outfits: 3 to 4 outfits should suit baby, in addition to a few swimsuits and a couple pajamas. You’ll be doing laundry every day anyway, so there will be quick laundry turnaround.

3) Diapers and wipes: just buy them there or ship some via Amazon to your location. Do pack a few in the car for the drive there, of course

4) Magazines/books: there will be no poolside lounging or beachfront lazing. Don’t kid yourself (see #10.)

6) A beach blanket: your child will be a sand-coated land beast within 15 minutes of your toes touching the dunes. You could choose to either accept your sandy fate or spend your entire beachside outing dusting, clearing, and securing a destined-to-be-gritty beach blanket. Bring some foldable beach chairs for brief sitting stints but, otherwise, don’t be a diva: become one with the sand. (See this post for sand removal tips.) Note: If you have a newborn, stick to a foldable beach tent with a standable stroller fan tucked inside, and a baby carrier to contain your little nugget.

6) Pricey beach toys: any toy on which you spent more than $1.50 or which requires multiple pieces to remain intact to be functional, should be reconsidered. Beach toys get lost, broken, and/or stolen by the ocean. Keep it simple… and cheap.

7) Motherhood-unfriendly attire: that strapless one-piece that baby can pull down faster than you can sneeze? Those dangling earrings that just scream “yank me”? Those shorts you tug on every few steps? Forget about them. Save suitcase space for a pair of beach flip flops, a pair of functional-but-cute sandals, close-toed shoes you could wear on a mulched playground, a couple pairs of shorts, underwear that doesn’t ride up your nethers, a few kid-friendly swimsuits, a zip-up swim cover-up, and a few tops or (if you’re nursing) a handful of nursing tanks. If you’re feeling extra hopeful, throw in a sundress just in case you maybe go somewhere that doesn’t ask if you want crayons with your menu.

8) Hygiene items: just buy them there and save yourself some packing drama. You’re going to have to do a grocery run upon arrival anyway. The adults and kids can share the same shampoo, conditioner, facial cleanser, bodywash, and moisturizer for one trip. Go simple, scent-free, and gentle to keep everyone’s skin (and eyes) happy.

9) The hope to sleep in: maybe — just maybe — your child will be the glimmering, rainbow-farting unicorn of an infant who actually sleeps better on vacation. That’s a big “maybe.” A better bet would be to accept some adjustment roughness for the first night or two. It’s survivable, especially if you anticipate it.

10) The expectation for relaxation: enter into this expedition knowing you will be on your feet most of the time. Any reprieve will be a bonus. Don’t fight it; just accept it. You’ll be happier in the end. Think of it as quality time with your kid(s) with built-in exercise!

Family vacations are memory-making, calorie-shredding, laughter-breeding, utterly exhausting experiences. You will simultaneously love and loathe the trip, and you won’t be alone wading through that emotional juxtaposition. All of us vacationing parents feel it too. Appreciate all you can, commit every magic moment to memory, and let the unsavory wash away with the tide.

Soak it in!

My Son Wants to be a Princess

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“What do you want to be for Halloween?” I ask nearly-5-year-old #1. “Hmmm…” she thinks carefully before landing upon her decision, “Aurora from ‘Sleeping Beauty.'” She is concrete in her choice.

“My want to be Rock Star Barbie!” Quips 3-year-old #2. I think of all of the xenophobic, homophobic, transphobic, sexist, hateful ramblings I’ve encountered online. “Are you sure you want to be Rock Star Barbie? People may not know who she is. Maybe a Rockstar would be more recognizable?” “No. Rockstar BARBIE,” he clarifies in his marble-mouth preschooler accent.

“Didn’t you say you wanted to be Ariel?” #1 interjects. “Oh yeah! My want to be Ariel. Toddler Ariel, like in the movie.” “We already have the costume, Mommy. It’s perfect” #1 negotiates. Yep, perfect.

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Do I have a problem with my son dressing as a mermaid and singing Disney princess songs while twirling about the playroom? Not a bit. Do I care that he readily announces his adoration for Rapunzel in public or carries a doll with him on errands? Not in the least. Do I buy him a truck instead of a Barbie when he requests the doll? Nope, Barbie it is. Do I worry about what others may say to him — not to me — about his sequin-bedecked costume choice? Yes. However, I don’t want him to know that.

I don’t want him to think he needs to or should change himself to defend himself against potential negative backlash. Why should any grown adult care what my child chooses to wear as a Halloween costume? He’s not carrying a weapon or scaring anyone. His costume isn’t age-inappropriate, sexist, racist, or violent. He’s simply dressing up as the lead character from a famous movie. So what, the character wears a seashell bikini top instead of body armor? So what if she has a glimmering mermaid tail instead of metal knuckle-claws, bulging green muscles, or a red cape? C’mon, who doesn’t want to be a mermaid?!

Even though I believe #2 should be able to choose his costume with the same freedom as #1, I worry. I worry because some people are judgmental and cruel. Some people are threatened by that which they don’t, can’t, or refuse to understand. Some people are so set on making things rigid and divided that they become threatened by anything or anyone that exists within the gray areas. They make assumptions — right, wrong, and downright ridiculous — about strangers whose lives they know nothing about.

Still, there are kind people, loving people, supportive people. People who welcome others, who treasure differences, who honor the black, white, and gray areas of life. These are the people I celebrate in our lives. These are the people whose opinions carry any shred of value to me because love (not hate), kindness (not bullying), acceptance (not exclusion) is what I teach my children.

Should I encourage my son to change for fear of the unkind people and what they might say to him, or should I allow him to be a child, to be innocent, to be genuinely himself despite what others may say? Should I imply his preferences are somehow “wrong”, because some individual with whom I in no way agree, believes in sacred social constructs designed to categorize and divide humans into neat, easily digestible boxes? Should I teach him that, instead of being true to himself, that he should acquiesce for the phobic comfort of others? Should I make a 3-year-old’s Halloween costume out to be a life-defining decision?

No. It’s just a Halloween costume. I certainly don’t remember what costume I chose at 3-years-old.  That decision had no lasting impact on my life, why should his be so controversial?

I better get to stitching those loose sequins back on that mermaid tail. #2 will run that costume ragged!

Appreciating the Scars

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Our kitchen table is worn. It’s weathered. It’s scratched and marked and mottled with imperfections. It’s not artfully or intentionally aged. There’s no shabby-chic crackle finish or sandpapered paint. It’s simply ragged in the way well-worn items are.

At first, when we inherited the large, solid wood table as recent newlyweds we were pleased. We figured it would suit our needs, at least temporarily, until we eventually refinished it or upgraded.

Occasionally, we’d flip through catalogs and dreamily contemplate which new table to purchase. The flashy trendy set ot perhaps the simpler, classic arrangement? Then, we’d see the prices and close the catalog, turning our minds to what new finish or paint could make our table look presentable. We didn’t have the time to devote to such a task, so we abandoned the flirtation. Glancing down at our patchy table in scorn, its flaws were amplified against the shine of the new.

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Then, came the children. Each child adding paint flecks, scratches, and scuffs to the already unevenly worn finish. As I looked at the bald spots and etching, rough edges and glitter embedded in deep scratches, I became embarrassed. I wanted to hide and cover the marred table. To disguise the wear and tear of its service.

Then, one day, while cleaning the crumbs from the tabletop, I looked up and saw my children’s chairs. I traced my finger along the pink paint left behind from the baby shower for my first child. I felt the fork scratches in front of my middle son’s seat. I saw the grooves left behind by my daughter’s overzealous hand as she’d begun to learn to write her name. Then, I saw the worn patch, the permanently blond spot on the edge of the table where Nonna, my grandmother-in-law, had sat. Her seat at the table was still clearly marked so many years after her death. That’s when I realized: these aren’t imperfections, they’re memories!

Each scar tells a story. Each fleck signals nostalgia. Each worn patch stands as a place marker, mapping the seats of dearest loves.

This table wasn’t flawed. It wasn’t broken. It was beautiful in an organic, simple way. It was strong.

Every day the table served us, absorbing our abuse and displaying our lives in a tapestry of wooden memoriam. It’s not perfect.  It’s loved. It’s ours.

Active Parenting

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For the past few months, I have made the conscious decision to actively parent my children. Not in terms of involvement — I already treat motherhood as if it’s my full-time, ’round-the-clock job — but in terms of physical activity.

Instead of feeling bitter and guilty for not being able to cram a workout into my nutty day, I make my nutty day my workout. If I can fit in some extra squats, planks, ab work, and such I will, but I don’t feel defeated if I can’t. I work my body in other ways.

If the kids are playing outside and I am presented with the option to sit or stand, I stand. If I am granted the opportunity to play with the kids or remain uninvolved, I play. If I am asked to give a piggyback, I bounce to up the fun and workout intensity.

This habit has not only made playtime more fun and helped me manage my weight, but I also feel more contented at the end of long kid-wrangling days. It has increased my appreciation for my body too.

I most certainly have things I would like to adjust about my body, things I’m still working on, and things I’ve learned to accept, but my strength and endurance are aspects I honor. What’s better: those are the exact elements I can control.

As I continue my active parenting efforts, I feel my body’s strength and endurance increase and that makes me proud. Not of myself, but of my body. “Did I really just play chase with three kids around a playground while nursing my baby in the carrier? Yes, yes I did!” “Did I really just bounce-skip up that hill carrying a 20lb baby and a 30lb preschooler? Yes, yes I did!” “Did I really just give double-piggyback rides to my 3-year-old and nearly -5-year-old 10 times across a pool? Yes, yes I did!” How could you not appreciate your body for allowing you to do that?

Not only am I happier feeling stronger and more accomplished, my kids are enjoying the playful parenting. (I’m still strict, but I can play too.) I feel contented knowing I’m making sustainable strides towards a happier, healthier life, and simultaneously enjoying and building memories with my children.

If decades from now I am able to play tag with my grandkids, if I’m able to carry all of my groceries inside without a second thought, if I’m able to live life without physical limitations, what a gift that would be. That is my goal. Until then, I’ll plan to have fun along the way.

To Dive or Swim?

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“Congratulations,” the pediatrician said to #3 during his 1-year well-check, “you’re a toddler now!” And with that, I am now in a weird state of mourning, confusion, and relief.

#3 just had his first birthday and, being the delayed processor that I am, I am only now emotionally experiencing the life event. I am only now coming to terms with this possibly being my last baby.

No more heavenly calm of a newborn asleep on my shoulder, no more hourly nighttime feedings, no more infant coos, no more labor and delivery recoveries, no more baby cuddles, no more diaper explosions, no more tiny footsie pajamas. There is so much that would rest sadly and happily in the past.

As I process my mixed emotions I begin to wonder if we should have another. In no way does my body yearn to become pregnant again. In no way do I look at an expectant mom or new baby and palpably yearn to be in that life season. For the first time in 7 years, I am not craving a baby. But yet I fear letting go of this life stage.

Will I regret it later if we don’t try one last time? Will I regret it if we do? Would the extra addition prove to be just too much?  We’re already testing all of our limits with 3 under 5. Still, as ridiculous of a reason as it may be, having a baby would keep us in this life stage longer.

My children will keep growing, moving further into their own lives and away from me. They will develop and mature, they will identify as individuals instead of as my children. I know that having one more baby wouldn’t halt that eventuality, but it would prolong my stay in this harried, exhausting, yet wonderful time… the glory days of my maternal career.

Then I think of how much easier things are with #1 and #2, being past the infant neediness and the toddler self-endangerment phases. Potty-training is done, strollers are gone, self-sufficiency is increasing. They can communicate their needs clearly. They understand social expectations (though they don’t always meet them.) They can play in a room independently without risk of grave injury or damage. They squabble and tantrum, but they are increasingly independent. It’d be nice to have the demands of very young childhood behind us for convenience’s sake.

With a 1-year-old, 3-year-old, and nearly-5-year-old, I feel as if my head is just surfacing above a rough swell. It’s beautiful beneath the waves, simultaneously tranquil and perilous, but I can only hold my breath so long before I must rise for air. Once I see the world above the sea and breathe freely, can and should I dip down again knowing my submersion will only be temporary? Knowing that the surface I see now would be entirely different the next time I reemerge? Will the sea be too rough next time? But if I don’t dive soon, I’ll lose my chance for good. Will I mourn my missed opportunity?

I know I have months before I could even begin trying (thank you, breastfeeding for delaying that cyclical annoyance!) and I wouldn’t even want to start for a while (I survived 2 under 2 once… once was enough.) Still, as a planner, I want to know. I don’t feel ready now, but will I later? Will life simply make the choice for us one way or another? Who knows?

In the meantime, I’ll just tread water and enjoy the view.