Real life

“Blue Boobed”

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Blue boob

/bloo,boob/

Verb: the act of a breastfeeding baby causing breast milk letdown but refusing to consume the triggered milk, resulting in painful breast engorgment.

“The baby started to nurse then got distracted and blue boobed me.”

Being blue boobed by your own baby is like nursing torture. Engorgment anxiety, like hangriness (aka: hunger-induced anger), is real. The discomfort and frustration of having milk letdown just to have it painfully pool, uneaten, leaves you with three choices:

1) Try to convince your baby to nurse. Though this will likely end up failing and milk may very well end up spraying everywhere. So you’ll probably look to options #2 and #3.

2) Go ahead and grab the pump. This is only an option if you’re in a location where pumping is feasible, of course. What would’ve taken your baby 3-5 minutes to extract, will now take 15 minutes — plus pump part washing and drying, as well as milk bagging — to eliminate via the breast pump. Thanks, nursling!

3) Try riding it out. You could ignore the engorgment and anxiety, but this could end up a milky mess. You could also wind up with a nice souvenir, every nursing mom’s favorite: clogged milk ducts.

Oh the joys of breastfeeding. Keep on milking on!

The Loneliness of Motherhood

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Motherhood is lonely. As moms, there’s always someone clinging to us, following us, needing us, demanding of us. Even when our children are not physically present, their needs are still in the forefront of our minds.

As mothers, we are constantly surrounded by humans — big and small — but rarely do we truly get to connect with them. We are too busy chasing and aiding our little herds to meaningfully socialize. No matter the size of our “village” or quality of our friends, we will have periods during which we feel alone. We are lonely amongst the madness, isolated amidst the crowd.

When we try to converse with others, it’s guaranteed that a majority of our thoughts and sentences will go uncompleted. “Mommy, I need to go potty!” “Mommy he’s not sharing!” “Mommy, watch this!” “Mommy, I’m stuck!” Each intercession permanently derails a line of conversation. Then there are the maternal sensors that ping every few moments interrupting you just as your child licks the floor, crawls towards power cords, attempts to fly, tackles her sibling, or uses a public drinking fountain as his own personal splash pad.

For many of us, social media becomes a form of self-medication. We use it to camouflage the isolation. We like, post, comment, pin, and tweet to feel less alone… to connect. But it falls flat. It’s not the same.

Occasionally some of us can break free and revel in a mom date. We order adult drinks and savor the ability to eat our meal without having to simultaneously referee. We chat and laugh, we feel human again. Then it’s time to go home to the children we adore and miss, despite knowing full well the level of chaos that awaits us.

We arrive home with our emotional tank closer to full. We’re refreshed and replenished from our social outing. This is temporary, and we know it.

Every tantrum, every meltdown, every sleepless night, every departure debacle and bedtime battle drains our emotional tank. Sweet moments and tender cuddles reverse a bit of the loss, but the loneliness is an emotional hemorrhage that will leave us empty if unattended. The sense of isolation will render us shriveled, aggitated, overwhemed, fatigued, and depleted. We cannot pour from an empty cup, but we must.

Motherhood is joyous and stressful, love-drenched and tumultuous, priceless and taxing. It’s a beautiful gift but it’s lonely.

A Mother’s Love

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I remember the moment I realized how much my mother loved me.

My mom and me

My mom and me

I was a new mom, weeks from being physically healed from delivery. Holding my tiny firstborn in her nursery, I felt that terrifying, beautiful, crippling love swell within me. The maternal adoration that paralyzes you with fear of countless “what ifs”, and makes you want to kiss your baby’s hands and feet millions of times in the futile hope that maybe your touch will convey just how much she is cherished.

Me and #1

#1 and Me

As my heart swelled and my eyes welled amidst the powerful wave of love, everything became clear: “This is how much my mother loves me.” I stopped, slack-jawed. I recounted the fearful times, the happy times, the frustrating times, the mundane. I reflected upon my life through a mother’s eyes, not a child’s. It was as if my eyes were finally open.

#2 and Me

#2 and Me

And so I now tell my own children, “You will never understand how much I love you until you become a parent, yourself.” They look at me and smile, thinking they know how deeply they are loved, but they don’t. They can’t. A mother’s love is beyond logic, beyond reason, beyond measure. The strength, breadth, and purity of a mother’s love is simply unfathomable until you become a mother.

Hubs, #3 and Me

Hubs, #3 and Me

Thank you for loving me, Mom, even when I was unlovable. Thank you for the sleepless nights, tremendous worry, necessary guidance, endless self-imposed guilt, and ecstatic rejoicing. You are a great mom, a strong woman, a doting grandmother, and giving friend. You taught me how to be a mom and that is something I cannot repay.

Mom and Me

Mom and Me

I love you but I know you love me more, because you’re my mother. Happy Mother’s Day!

 

Life after Murder

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10 years ago today, my 34-year-old cousin was murdered by her on-again-off again fiancé. Shot in the head on her own sofa.

May 7, 2006, I was returning on an early morning flight from the out-of-town wedding of my now-husband’s eldest brother. Running on three hours of sleep, stale airplane coffee, and a slight hangover, we made our way home. We stopped at my eventual parents-in-law’s house to pick up my car when I realized I was far too tired to safely command a vehicle. So, I took a 30-minute nap to regain some semblance of human brain function. When I awoke, only half-zombie now, I remembered my cell phone was still off due to the plane ride. I turned it on. Numerous voicemails.

I listened to one message after the other from family members telling me to call them. One, from my male cousin, urged me to call him immediately. I had never heard these words from him. I ran outside to get better reception and called.

“Joy is dead.” What??? We didn’t know anything except that her live-in fiancé had been present. Details were scarce and contradictory. I asked after my aunt, the mother of my three cousins. “She’s sitting in a chair. She’s quiet.” “Where are you?” I asked. They were at his sister’s — Joy’s sister’s — house. “Come over.”

I closed my flip phone and stared at a crack in the driveway. “What was that all about?” Hubs asked, still half-zombie himself. “Joy is dead.” I said vacantly. My mind couldn’t process the words. The exhausted mental wires were firing and fizzing but no connection resulted. I was numb.

Hubs drove me to my cousin’s house. I sat in the passenger seat for the hour long drive switching between talking to family on the phone, trying to find out anything that made any of this make sense, and staring silently out the window. “Joy is dead” I kept thinking.

We arrived at my cousin’s home. Everyone was there. We were processing, rehashing our stories of how we heard the news, sharing what little information we knew, trying to comprehend our reality. We kept glancing at our phones, as if at any moment a call would come through and this nightmare would be extinguished.

Over the next eight months the police investigation was messy. Media enjoyed the story. Official assumptions were offered and rescinded. Evidence was found and lost. Deals were made and ammended. In the end, there was a trial.

The on-again-off-again live-in fiancé, indicted on first-degree murder and using a handgun to commit a felony, plead down to manslaughter and a gun charge. He got 10 years, with the mandatory 5-year gun sentence to run concurrently with the manslaughter time. He served 6 years.

My 34-year-old cousin who loved life, took in his children as her own, helped him through medical challenges, supported him through addiction, and aided him during financial hardships was dead due to his actions. Yet he served 6 years.

It took me years to let go of the unfairness, to release the nagging questions about the fated night’s events, to accept it all as a part of the family path and my story. It was what it was.

10 years later, I put myself in Joy’s place; she was just a year older than I am now when she was killed. I look back on how I’ve changed, how my life has changed, who has been added to and subtracted from our living family since she left us. I think about how different life may have been — how different I might have been — if Joy was still alive.

I reflect on how the holiday season is different without her. How family gatherings are quieter. How I’ve had to actively redirect my initial reaction to all the signs and decor featuring “JOY” in bold, festive letters from an aching pit in my stomach to a contented reflection. I can now smile outwardly — though not always inwardly — at the sight. I am a work in progress, but I am determined.

I reflect on how I’ve purposefully trained myself to react to poignant dates with a celebratory demeanor to honor her life, instead of pointlessly lamenting her death. How I’ve reminded myself over and over that Joy’s death was but moment in the vibrant life she loved so much. How I’ve instructed myself that her death isn’t — and shouldn’t be — demonstrative of her life. How focusing so heavily on her death diminishes the beauty of her existence.

I reflect on how I have to think before answering questions about how many cousins I have, or what tense to use when referring to Joy. Because, “my cousin was murdered by her fiance” isn’t exactly prime conversation material. I don’t want to lie, I don’t want to pretend she was never a part of this world, but few have experienced murder with any closer proximity than through a television series.

10 years later, I have resigned myself to the truth that we will never know what really happened that night, that nothing will ever feel just, that nothing will bring her back. Closure is simply not ours to have.

Some things in life we aren’t supposed to know, control, or understand. We are just to live. So I do.

They’re Testes not a Free Pass

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Men are not incompetent. Women are not innately or universally better caregivers than men. So why do we assume this to be true?

Why, when my husband wrangles our three children — 4.5-years, 3-years, and 10-months — do people react with shock, but it is assumed that I can easily manage the troublesome trio? Do my ovaries offer me a child rearing superpower? Do his testes render him incapable of tending to his own offspring? No.

Hubs takes offense to the notion that he is assumed underqualified to effectively tend to his own offspring. That mindset is one of the reasons I adore him.

“I don’t do diapers.” some men say with a macho sense of superiority, as if their y-chromosome places them above the unsavory portions of caregiving. Apparently, the universe granted these stallions the option of making such a choice, but not women. “I can only handle one child at a time.” Some fathers will claim, even though they sired multiple children. It’s as if these sowers-of-oats don’t realize they’re demeaning themselves out of sheer laziness. Then, there are my favorite set, the myopic brutes who insist that they — the paycheck-earning men — need regular breaks from household humdrum yet their female counterparts neither deserve nor require such respite. To all of these fathers I say: think again.

You spawned the children, you parent the children. What you expect your mate to do in terms of childcare, you must also be willing to undertake.

If you “don’t do diapers”, you are expecting your counterpart to assume a duty you deem lesser, thereby implying she is lesser. Is that really a conversation you feel like having? Grab some baby wipes and clean the baby bum. You’re manly, you can take it.

If your significant other, with whom you share guardianship, is capable of wrangling all of your shared children, buddy, so can you. It may take some trial and error but you’ll learn, exactly as she did.

Everyone needs regular breaks — from work, routine, etc. — and a presence or absence of female anatomy does not negate this requirement. You, dear sir, need just the same (yes, the same) number of breaks as your co-parent. You are not a babysitter any more than she is. You cannot claim to be too overworked or underqualified to allow her a break unless you offer her the same veto power for your respites. This is a partnership.

Even if your significant other is a stay-at-home mom, your bread-winning status does not absolve you from parenting duties. Her lack of financial contribution to the household does not mean her duties are lesser or that you deserve downtime more than she does. You don’t work 24/7 without assistance or a break; neither should she.

Claiming ignorance or incompetence when it comes to caring for your own offspring doesn’t make you more masculine, more attractive, or more powerful. It simply debases you, degrades your partner, and — quite frankly — makes you appear lazy, selfish, misogynistic, antiquated, and inept.

Parenthood is a joint venture. Do your part. End of story.

 

Winesdays

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I hate Wednesdays.

Every-other Wednesday we all have to get up extra early and be out of the house by the time I usually wake the kids any other day of the week. Every time — every single time — #1 is shocked and horrified by the early start, and battles me all the way through the morning routine. #2 moans and wails, trying to sneak back into bed. #3 decides to take this opportunity to unravel the entire roll of toilet paper, eat unwashed socks in the laundry basket, and tip over shampoo bottles.

Once dressed and brushed for the day, the boys and I drive an hour in traffic to my parents’ while Hubs has a breakfast date with #1 before preschool drop-off. The boys and I enjoy time with extended family (the bright spot in our day), then venture back home where I tell myself the boys will nap… they must nap. I NEED them to nap.

Despite the early start, no one naps. Because of the early start, everyone is an asshole.

Wishing coffee into wine

Pumping during what is SUPPOSED to be naptime and wishing this coffee was wine

To make things even better — because I am a genius — I signed up #1 for ballet after preschool on Wednesdays. She loves ballet… pink, tutus, what’s not to adore? However, an extra-long day paired with having to act like a decent human being in public for that many consecutive hours means meltdown mania from the time her tulle-bedecked tush enters the house until she’s shuffled into bed. Some days she even continues her tirade in her sleep, awaking refreshed and rejuvenated after unknowingly verbally eviscerating me All. Night. Long.

I hate Wednesdays.

Thank God for wine!

Rare Cuddles

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“Mommy, do you want to lay down with me?” Was #1, my rainbow-loving, sparkle-wearing, cat-like daughter really asking ME, “The Enforcer”, for cuddles??? I turned on my heels from the cutting board and looked her square in the eye. “Of course!” I said. I felt like the popular clique had asked me to join their lunch table.

Carrots left half-chopped on the cutting board, we lounged on the sofa, her head on my chest, watching “My Little Pony.” As soon as the show ended, her feline tendencies returned. Wordlessly, she stretched, fixed her hair, and slinked her way down to the floor as if the cuddles never happened.

I’ll take it!

Bad Days

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“So, I found a drive-thru vasectomy place.” Hub’s comment about sums up our day. The level of exhaustion anf frustration at the end of a very bad, very long kid-wrangling day is maddening.

#1 was snarky and stubbornly negotiating like a lawyer. #2 was  throwing one screaming fit after another. #3 was getting into everything and started a lovely phase of shrill chimpanzee-like shrieking.

I sit nursing #3, listening as Hubs bathes #1 and #2. It’s not going well. Both have had treat priveleges revoked for the next day and they haven’t even rinsed out the shampoo yet.

I don’t know how I’ll make it through the last half-hour before bedtime. I don’t know where I’ll gather patience for tomorrow. But I’ll do it. I always do.

Nursing session is done. Kids are bathed. Bedtime. #1 asks me to cuddle with her and tell her a bedtime story. I put my head on her chest. I feel her ribs rise and fall as she tells me which story she wants. I feel her excitement as I begin. She puts her hand on my shoulder as I reach the end. I kiss her soft, soap-scented cheek and wish her sweet dreams. “I love you!”

I am restored.

 

Marker Mix-up

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**#1 is coloring with markers at the kitchen table while I fold laundry in the adjacent room**

#1: “Raaaaar! This. Isn’t. Working. Mooommy!”

Me: “Yes.”

#1: “The pink marker isn’t working.”

Me: “Use another marker. Maybe that one needs a break.”

#1: “Nooo. It’s drawing; it’s just… purple. #2 must’ve broken it. HE broke it. Now there’s no pink marker!”

Me: “The pink marker is drawing purple? Are the marker caps mixed up?”

#1: “No. It’s just drawing purple. There’s purple everywhere!”

**I walk over**

Me: “Ummm… #1, what color is the paper?”

#1: “Blue.”

Me: “Mhmm. What color is your marker?”

#1: “Pink. But it only draws purple. #2 broke…”

Me: “What color does red and blue make?”

#1: “Purple.”

Me: …

#1: …

Me: “Let’s try this again. Red and white make?”

#1 : “Pink.”

Me: “So, if red and blue make purple, and red and white make pink, what would happen if you mixed pink and blue?”

#1: “Ummm… light purple.”

**I motion to the violet marker scribblings on her paper.**

#1: …

Me: “You’re drawing on blue paper with a pink marker so the pink ink looks purple.”

#1: “No. #2 broke it! He breaks everything…” blah, blah, blah

**I return to my laundry heap**

Some days I could swear my kids’ mission is “drive Mom bananas.”

My Infertility

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I was infertile. I was in my mid-20s, married to my high school sweetheart, generally healthy, and there was no reason I shouldn’t be able to get pregnant. But I couldn’t.

We tried for six months with no success. I went to my OB/Gyn. She recommended I track my cycles. I did.

A few months of tracking and trying, it was clear I had returned to my former cycle irregularity as soon as I had stopped taking my oral contraceptive. “You’re young. You’re healthy. Let’s not waste time. I’ve seen too many women have their concerns brushed off and then age becomes a factor. Let’s get you pregnant.” She explained I, for some reason, wasn’t ovulating regularly. So, she prescribed me a low dose of Clomid to spur my body into ovulating and referred me to an infertility specialist. Disaster.

Ovarian cysts formed. I could barely walk, my abdomen was so distended I appeared to be in my second trimester, I couldn’t wear anything tighter than an empire waist dress because my abdomen was so sore from the cysts, my hair started falling out, acne flared, I couldn’t concentrate, I was a hormonal wreck. Back on birth control I went for one month to dissolve the cysts. Once off of the contraceptive, we kept trying. So many negative pregnancy tests. So many tears.

2010: In the midst of Infertility struggles

2010: In the midst of Infertility struggles

I saw the infertility specialist. She wanted to label me as PCOS but I didn’t fit in the box. She sent Hubs for testing. He came back: “super motility” with zero fertility concerns. I was clearly the problem. I ran through numerous invasive, humiliating, and painful tests; all came back spotless. Meanwhile, every pregnancy test was negative. My body was inexplicably standing in the way of our dreams — my entire life vision — and I had no explanation, no solution. Even worse: I had to remain silent.

I couldn’t tell anyone at work because a young woman trying to conceive is a liability in corporate culture. Sharing that news would’ve sidelined my career. I couldn’t tell my friends or family because I considered it a private matter that they wouldn’t understand. My family had all easily conceived; most of my friends were trying to prevent conception. A few people I did let in tried to empathize but there were unfortunate statements like, “Just relax and forget about it, then you’ll get pregnant,” and “People accidentally get pregnant all the time.” I felt so alone, so “other”, and so palpably barren.

Upon my fertility specialist’s advice, we hesitantly agreed to try one more even lower dose of Clomid. I woke up unable to walk or stand for longer than a minute. I cried in pain (I don’t cry); we went to the ER (I don’t go to the ER).

Pregnant with #1

Pregnant with #1

Bigger, meaner ovarian cysts twice the size of my ovaries appeared in the scan. The emergency room physician looked concerned and said he’d never seen cysts so big. “No driving. No intercourse. Limit walking,” he said. “If those cysts burst, they could take out your ovaries.” I started bawling. He asked me why I was crying. “Because I’m trying to have a baby — all I want is a baby — and you just told me I have two ticking time bombs attached to the exact organs I need to make that baby.” He looked at me like a confused puppy and left the room.

He returned 30-minutes later. “I talked to your gynecologist,” he said, “She’s great! She calmed me down and told me ovarian cysts can get this big. She said another round of oral contraceptive should take care of them.” He tried to give me narcotics for the pain but I refused; I don’t do pain medication. Back on birth control I went. Away went the cysts. Square 1.

Another visit to the fertility specialist. “If you don’t want to do Clomid again,” we most certainly did NOT, “you should seriously consider IUI.” She wanted to artificially inseminate me.

Hub’s and I talked… a lot. I cried… a lot. We decided to take a break from the doctors and the medicine for 6 months just to see if we could do this on our own. My fertility specialist tried to dissuade us. We remained firm. “I’ll see you back in six months.” she said. With that, a big, irritated part of me wanted to get pregnant just to spite her.

I returned to my OB/Gyn and fumed about the fertility specialist. She recommended an expensive fertility monitor to aid us in our natural conception efforts. $300 poorer and one fertility monitor richer, we were tracking and trying.

Three months later, #1 was conceived. The lonely, exhausting, painful, secretive, mournful infertility battle was over. We finally had our baby. The emotional scars will never heal. I’ll never be the same person I was before. However, I’m glad. We are more appreciative, grateful parents than we likely would have been otherwise because we experienced what we did. I am a stronger person for having had my brush with infertility. Yet others have and continue to suffer more than I. I am a lucky one.

An infertility struggle and a traumatic delivery gave us #1

An infertility struggle and a traumatic delivery gave us #1