The Chair

Crib, check. Changing station, check. Closet organizers, check. We went down the Babies R Us list line by line and scanned away with a determination that couldn’t be quantified. I am a checklist person and this was the ultimate experience. I had scoured the internet and collected advice on must-have’s and don’t-waste-your-money’s to create a comprehensive list of items we would register for. I checked out reviews and price matched on line. All that was left was to pick that final piece of furniture for her nursery.
Rocker or Glider? Ottoman or no?
I sat in at least ten different options, waddling my pregnant self down the row in the back of the store. I closed my eyes and leaned my head back, imagining rocking that new bundle of joy. This one didn’t have enough head support. I put my legs up on the ottoman and glided back and forth. That one made my butt slide down when I used the foot rest. I sat in a large arm chair style glider and pretended I was holding a book. This one doesn’t have high enough arm rests. We ended up at a cream cushioned white glider with a rocking foot rest. I sat down, put my arms on the arm rests and imagined holding my sweet girl while nursing her. The arms were perfect. I could clearly see the nights I would stay up with her when she got hungry. The head rest allowed my head to lean to the side a tad in case I fell asleep rocking her. This was the one.
My parents so lovingly ordered our newly chosen glider online and set it up in the nursery as a surprise for us. It fit perfectly. We placed baskets of books on either side for bed time stories and we were ready. Everything we needed to welcome home baby was set up. We could do this.
In the following 2 months I would go into her room and sit in that glider. I spent so much time just relaxing, rocking, and looking around. I could perfectly see myself holding her; nursing her. This chair was going to hold such amazing memories. I was going to learn every tiny inch of her beautiful face and she would listen to my heart in this chair.
My Dr. suggested some classes, and I attended, notebook in hand. We went over all the benefits of breastfeeding and I learned so many tricks. We talked about freezing breast milk and how long you could store any extra.
They tell you all about how to handle an excess of production, but they never tell you what it’s like when your body simply won’t cooperate. I didn’t believe it when the lactation consultant, who had fought our pediatrician for 2 weeks so that I wouldn’t have to supplement, finally caved and told me it was time to break out the formula. This didn’t make sense. I was prepared. I went to the class, I knew all the secrets. I had the chair.
Rather than a relaxing and loving time in the glider to nurse baby, like you see in the ads, I had a routine that consisted of nursing for 15 minutes on each side, then pumping for another 20 minutes, while bottle feeding for the balance of her needed calories. I set up shop in the corner of our couch where I could watch TV and distract myself from what I considered my failings as a new mom. I had my pump, covers, extra flanges and bottles and some rags. This was business.
Whenever I would walk into her nursery, that chair was there. It stared at me. That damn cream cushioned glider that was supposed to hold so many sweet memories had now become a symbol of moments lost. I found myself avoiding even looking at it because of what it represented.
By the time I stopped pumping at 6 months, we were at about 25% breast milk per bottle with the balance being formula and I had exhausted all options, tips, and tricks. I had started using the glider to rock her at night with a bottle so she would be asleep before going into her crib. Slowly but surely I found myself more “in the moment” for her night-time bottle. I would watch her eye lids get heavy with each rock back and forth. I watched her little chest rise and fall as she drifted off toward the end of the bottle. I would brush the hair off her face after putting her pacifier in her mouth. I already knew every little inch of that amazing little girl’s face but I realized that there was still so much to notice and I hadn’t even started.
My husband and I unintentionally fell into a routine where I would hold her with a bottle and he would sit on the ottoman, my legs on his lap, and he would rock us both back and forth while he read a bed time story.
It must have been about two months into the routine that it hit me. She had almost finished her bottle, her daddy rocked us back and forth (bed time story finished) and I sang our night-time song. All of a sudden, my eyes filled with tears. I realized that this chair which had, for months, been a reminder and symbol of how I put my daughter at a disadvantage, had actually been intended for something completely different from the beginning. It was never meant for stolen moments in the middle of the night for the two of us. It was meant to bring our family together every evening before bed; to surround this precious little package with love and support on a daily basis; to let her know from the beginning that she would always have her mommy and daddy by her side.
I sit in that glider almost every day when I get home from work and I watch her play with the toys in her room. She brings me a book and shows me a stuffed rabbit. We make noises back and forth at each other. Sometimes we clap if one of the cats runs through and she gets excited. I spend as much time in that chair as I can because it is a different kind of reminder now. It is a reminder that my daughter’s life will not be dictated by the things that happen to her, but by the people that surround her. Her abilities in life will not be decided by the fact that she is a formula baby, but by the fact that she is loved and cared for from the bottom of our hearts. Her life will be shaped by the moments we spend rocking in her room.
I love that damn chair.
Disclaimer: I can’t even begin to imagine the horror of losing a child or the struggle of raising a child with mental and/or physical difficulties. I know that I am truly blessed to have a healthy little girl and that there are things MUCH harder as a mother than not begin able to breast feed. I am in no way insinuating that my struggles should even be cast in a similar light to those that many other mothers face.

On Being a Bad Feminist

Seven months ago I gave birth the most beautiful baby girl that has ever existed (maybe I’m a little biased…). I had an uneventful pregnancy where I gained less than 20 pounds, in a healthy fashion, was wearing my pre-pregnancy jeans with a “belly band” two days after coming home, and hit my pre-pregnancy weight at around 2 months without doing anything special (seriously… I am NOT an exerciser). My little girl was healthy, I was feeling good, and then it happened. The unthinkable. Today, a woman who sees me on a semi-regular basis exclaimed, “Oh my gosh! Are you pregnant with another one!?”

*Blink Blink*

I had no idea how to respond. The world froze and I just stood there for what seemed like forever. Thankfully my smart ass survival reflexes saved me and in what was actually a matter of seconds I replied, “Nope, this is still the last one… just hangin’ around.”

Did that just happen? Did another woman – another mother for God’s sake – just ask me the one thing that you are NEVER supposed to ask someone? Good Lord, do I look pregnant?

I spent the rest of the day feeling like a cloud was just sort of hanging over my head. All of sudden, this issue of baby weight which I thought I had skillfully eluded was following me like that cloud in an animated anti-depressant commercial. I reasonably decided that I simply wouldn’t eat more than 500 calories a day until it was obvious that I was, in fact, NOT pregnant. Thankfully the idiocy of that idea became very clear once lunch time rolled around and I was hungry. I went through the rest of the day fighting how I would deal with this. The feminist in me was screaming, “Why yes, my body has changed a little since having a baby and even though I weigh the same, my tummy hangs a bit now. And by the way, this body just built a human being. This body just spent nine months providing for and literally building another person. So I love this body and every flabby part of it!” Because that’s what you’re supposed to say, right? That’s what all the parenting magazines and mommy blogs and supportive articles tell you. Don’t stress about getting your body back right away; every stretch mark is a reminder of that bundle of joy; love each little thing that has changed about you after pregnancy because you were part of a miracle.

But is that really fair? Is it really that easy? We have spent  our entire pre-pregnancy lives being sold this idea of beauty. We are constantly taught what is good enough and what isn’t and even though we fight it, that image is programmed into us hundreds of times a day and after a full day of work and a baby, I’m just too damn tired to fight that image. The reality is that I’m simply not strong enough to love every stretch mark, value every pound, and revel in the new shape of my body. But my little girl deserves better. She deserves a mommy who can raise her with the example of something different. She deserves for me to find a way around this.

So as I stood in the shower contemplating how I would tackle this problem, I thought about all the things in my life that were different since having that beautiful bundle of joy: My body (as previously discussed), my marriage (stronger but still different than before), my sex life (very enjoyable, even if a little slower), and other countless things. I began to realize that all these things had something in common. They are in transition. None of them are stagnant. The bad, the good, the things that are neither – they are all transitioning to something different.

My body is different than before and that has nothing to do with what I eat or how often I do or don’t exercise. It has everything to do with the fact that I spent 9 months giving my daughter everything I had and then spent the last 7 months continuing to do that. My body is in transition; it is in recovery. I may not be able to look at myself in the mirror and be happy and in love with what I see, but I can recognize and understand what I see and that is an ever-changing, tired but happy, body in transition. My transition and recovery may take longer than yours, or it may be quicker – but it doesn’t matter. We all recover at our own pace. Right now I’m choosing to recover by spending my free moments with a laugh that melts my heart – and that’s a body I can love when I look in the mirror.

My little secret

I’m a very private person.

I’m not an introvert and I don’t find it hard to communicate my feelings (just ask my husband). But when it comes to the outside world, I’m a very private person. I don’t have a Twitter account, snap chat freaks me out, I have no idea how to ‘insta’ something, and my Facebook is void of check ins at restaurants, constant updates on my life, and has very few photos of my baby girl.

I’m a very private person, but there is something you need to know about me. There is something so personal that the thought of sharing it with the world makes me cringe, but I have to do it. It needs to be said.

I can’t breastfeed.

It’s not that I don’t want to and it’s not that I haven’t tried. I have done everything I possibly can while (barely) maintaining my sanity, but I can’t breast feed and it’s none of your damn business.

But it needs to be said. Not enough people say it. Too many women hide in fear that they will be judged for pulling out a bottle in public and mixing up that forbidden powder.

I’m a very private person, and I don’t share a lot with people, but this needs to be said.

There are these magical women who seem to be blessed with enough milk that they could feed their own baby, plus mine, plus yours, and still have milk shooting across the room until they slap their breast to make it stop (like my own mother). And no matter how understanding those women may be (because not everyone is a judgy mc-judgerson), they will never be able to truly know what it feels like to open that circular plastic lid and peel back the foil seal for the first time, and know that you can’t provide for your child.

But I do.

They won’t ever have any idea how much time a person can spend researching different medications that may or may not be fda approved. They probably have no idea which Canadian pharmacies will ship to the US and if they require a prescription.

But I do.

While those lucky women might choose to pump so they can have a reserve of milk, they have no idea how much of a science experiment you can feel like when you have to hook up to that damn machine every time your alarm goes off just so you can maybe squeeze out 2/5 of what your child needs, only to add formula to it.

But I do.

They have no idea what it is like for a mom who can’t breastfeed when people ask how old your baby is only to follow it up with the very personal question of ‘And you’re breastfeeding, right?’. They will never understand how you truly contemplate lying because you don’t want to have to explain that you have a brain tumor which inhibits your milk production, or your baby’s latch was so bad you bawled every time she ate (which by the way, you put off for as long as you could because her hungry cry was nothing compared to the thought of that excruciating pain), or because she was in the NICU for a few weeks and your body didn’t respond to the pump, or any number of other reasons. They have no idea what’s it’s like to want to scream it’s none of your damn business.

But I do.

And some of you do too.

And it doesn’t put us in some special club of moms who are better because we struggle but keep going. It doesn’t make us more dedicated to our child than a mother who couldn’t keep trying to breastfeed and it certainly doesn’t make us more loving than a mother who chose formula from the start. It doesn’t mean that we need people to feel sorry for us. It simply means we can understand each others struggles. Not enough people talk about it, and that’s the only way to make it feel even a little bit better.

You are still a great mom.

Pregnancy After Loss

So I’m 8 weeks pregnant. I don’t really know who exactly reads this blog and how many regular followers we have yet, so I don’t know who exactly I’m announcing this to. But I’m having major writer’s block because I have been trying to keep myself from writing about the biggest thing going on in my life at the moment. This thing that I carry in the back of my mind during every minute of every day and that has made the last month an extremely challenging one. Most everyone in my life (at least those I talk to on a regular basis) know about my pregnancy by now, so it’s not like I’m keeping it a secret. But I guess I haven’t felt like announcing it on social media yet because, well, pregnancy announcements are supposed to be happy, exciting things. And I’ll be honest: I don’t feel happy or excited about it at all right now. I’ve been pregnant for a month, and all I can think, because I know this fact all too well, is that this baby could be taken away from me at any moment.

The baby is doing well so far. We have seen her heartbeat twice and she’s growing on track. There is one complication of the pregnancy that has caused some bleeding and I’m being regularly monitored for it. It’s called a subchorionic hemorrhage and it’s an evil bastard and I just want it to go away and stop wreaking emotional havoc on me. Most pregnancies with these bleeds usually turn out fine, with no harm to mom or baby. But, when you’ve heard so many times about how “most pregnancies” turn out, but haven’t found yourself in that happy boat with all the other “most pregnancies” and instead have been in the sinking titanic over and over and over again…. it’s really hard for statistics and medical professionals’ optimism to put any sort of dent in your fear and anxiety.

And by the way, if one more person tells me to “think more positively,” or “just relax” I might punch them in the face. Truly. Pregnancy hormones combined with the stress and anxiety that I’m dealing with just may turn me into a very violent person and I just might break your nose.  Or burst into uncontrollable tears. It’s a toss-up. Probably not a risk you should take, either way.

Don’t get me wrong here with all this negativity. I’m grateful for this pregnancy. This baby is special and I’m already in love with it. The things we’ve gone through to get to this point have been impossibly difficult, and there were times that things were not looking good, and I thought we might never have another healthy child. I’m so incredibly lucky to have made it this far. The women I’ve met online through this journey have been my cheerleaders through it all and I couldn’t have been as strong through it all without them by my side. My family, especially my parents, have been an incredible support. They helped us by caring for RJ whenever I couldn’t and they helped us monetarily as well as just being THERE and loving us. My husband is eternally patient and supportive of me through all of it. I’m so amazingly lucky to have the opportunity to carry this pregnancy, and no matter how down and negative I get, I never forget all those wonderful things.

But some days, okay most days, those things are dwarfed by my utter exhaustion and physical misery. This is my sixth time going through the fun, fun first trimester. My third time going through it with a child to take care of. Granted, the last two times I went through it, earlier this year, were abbreviated. But I’ve been here before. I’ve been slightly sick-feeling and so unbelievably tired and still trying to deal with my toddler’s never-ending desire for constant attention and love. Add onto this a 4-week long sickness for RJ, and a cold for me a few weeks ago, and now possibly a second cold (I woke up with a sore throat this morning) and heaps and heaps of anxiety around my pregnancy, and what you’ve got is a Mama who is stretched paper-thin and doesn’t have any emotional energy left over for putting optimism and cheer out to the world.

Oh and did I mention I’m on pelvic rest because of the bleed complication? That means no sex, no exercise and no lifting. The first two are fine, because who’s got energy for that stuff right now, anyway, amiright? But no lifting??? When my sweet baby boy looks up at me those big, precious, blue eyes and says “Up, mama! up!” I have to tell him “No sweetie, I can’t pick you up right now”?  When he pulls away from me in a parking lot or a crowded store, I can’t pick him up and take him where we need to go? I can’t lift him into his crib or his high chair or onto his changing table or into the car? I can’t pick up up to carry him up and down the stairs with me (because YOU KNOW how long it takes to get up and down those stairs when he’s navigating them on his own!)? I can’t lift him into a grocery cart in order to do our shopping trip or carry him home from the neighborhood park when he’s tired? The answer to all of these questions from my Reproductive Endocrinologist was “If there’s any way you can avoid it, then no.” So that has added a ridiculously challenging element to our already long and difficult days.

We are coping though. We are muddling through. My parents are helping when they can. Mr. E came home early from work one day this week to do grocery shopping and cook dinner. I’ve gotten creative. RJ has a little blue step stool now that goes everywhere for us so that he can climb into and onto things all by himself. I’ve wrung out all the extra energy from my weary body to funnel it into convincing RJ’s stubborn toddler-self to do things and go places he doesn’t necessarily want to do and go to since I can’t drag him there myself anymore. I even got him to push the laundry basket into the laundry room for me the other day, since I can’t take it there myself (note also the random stray legos that seem to be taking over our house these days):

ryker laundry

Thanks, toddler-servant!

And so, life keeps going, and I just try to take it one day at a time, and hope, each day, that my new little baby’s heartbeat is still fluttering away in there, and that we will get to bring her home with us in June.

I’m still here!

Keeping up a regular blog is hard work, people! But fear not, I have returned to entertain you all with my extraordinarily boring life details.

Well, I have recovered from my cold. RJ is still hacking his up. We’re almost at the 3-week mark with his illness and I’ve already taken him to the doctor twice. I’m predicting a third trip this week. Because, really? He’s still sick? He’s still coughing? This doesn’t seem normal. Are you sure you don’t hear or see something that a nice handy-dandy pill could fix so we could all get a bit more sleep and be a bit less cranky during the day???

Not that I’ve been dealing with lack of sleep or crankiness in awhile because MAMA TOOK A LONG-ASS VACATION!

I drove RJ to Nana & Pappy’s house on Thursday and didn’t see him again until this morning! That’s 4 and a half days! Round it up to 5! What did Mr. E and I get to do? We flew to Boston and I bridesmaided it up in a wedding. We slept in for three glorious days in a row. We spent long periods of time (on the plane) just reading and watching movies. I prepared food for no one. I changed zero diapers. I calmed zero tantrums.

We also skyped with RJ twice and talked about him constantly and missed him in a deep-down-achey kind of way.

He couldn’t have noticed our absence less though!

Good for him.

It is Mr. E’s birthday tomorrow. And I’m totally prepared and totally don’t need to run out shopping today to find something he won’t hate. I’m kinda hoping the Giants win the world series in Game 7 tomorrow, because then I could claim that I was anticipating that, and so I totally knew he wouldn’t need a boring present from his boring wife. Off I go, shopping with my cranky, forever-sick toddler!

Mama’s Phone

The kid is 21 months old but he has figured out how to unlock my screen with a swipe of his chubby little finger. He knows how to press the home button and find the camera icon. Usually from there he clicks on the album and tries to watch one of the 50 gagillion videos I’ve taken of him. “Eee eeee eee” is how he says “videos”. I don’t know why. It’s got the same number of syllables, I guess.

Anywho, I left my phone on the bed while I was showering. (He doesn’t like to shower with me anymore. *sob*)

And picked it up a bit later to find this:

 

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Baby’s first selfies!!!

There were also a couple of videos showing mostly bedsheets, but also parts of his leg, accompanied by heavy, congestion-laden baby breathing.

(That confusing thing I took him to the doctor for last week turned into a full-blown, obvious cold that he’s still working on kicking.)

Mama caught it, too. But I seem to be fighting it off much more quickly.

I’ll post more when we’re both feeling a bit better.

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