Today is the first day I haven't gone to nurse Little Man at lunch.
In fact, like right now I should be in my car, driving over there.
In like five minutes, I would be sneaking past baby girl's room, where it's nap time but she's never napping, and putting on the blue shoe covers for the infant room, and going in and saying, "Hi, Sammy!!" with a huge smile and seeing the world's best smile in return. He'd kick his feet with glee and keep his eyes locked on me until he was in my arms.
Gosh me makes me feel good.
Then I'd go nurse him and snuggle him and make him laugh by playing peek-a-boo while I put my shirt back on. Then I'd sit and visit with his teacher for a few minutes and find out how his morning went.
But today none of that will happen. Today we are finally acknowledging that he is a growing boy and he doesn't need to eat every three hours anymore. Today we are finally letting his school schedule match his weekend schedule, when he's been going 3.5 to 4 hours between nursings for the last three or four weeks.
Which means that he'll no longer be eating at 12:30.
Which means that my days of going to nurse him--or even see him--during my lunch break are gone.
So today officially marks the longest I will have ever gone without seeing him during the day.
My heart hurts.
I'm self-medicating with chocolate.
Thank God it's Halloween and there's chocolate abounding.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
5 months
Dear Little Man,
Today you are five months old. Five months! It sounds like such a big-boy age. Gone are your newborn days. Gone is my saying, "He's only four months old. He's still so young." Because now you're five months. That's like, in the middle of your first year.
I shouldn't really be surprised at how old your age sounds. You are doing so many things that prove to me every day how much (and how fast) you are growing and changing! You can sit up on your own now, fully unsupported (not even tripod-sitting anymore!) for 30 seconds to a minute. You could probably go longer, but that's about how long it takes you to become suddenly fascinated with something on the other side of the room, or behind you, and you whip your head around and topple over, your body not yet quite adept at compensating for that kind of movement. But sitting! On your own! When five short months ago, you were such a tiny, squirmy, helpless little thing. The first year is truly amazing.
You can also push up onto straight arms when lying on your tummy now, and once or twice have actually gotten up onto your hands and knees. I know true mobility isn't far off, because you can push yourself backwards all over the place now. You see something you want in front of you, and then end up pushing yourself backwards. You get so frustrated, but it's so cute that I can't help but smile. Your teacher at school told me that you pushed yourself all the way under a crib one day and she had to crawl under the crib to get you!
You can turn the pages of the books we read you before bed. You can pull your arms out of sleeves when we are taking off your coat or long-sleeved shirt. You are learning routines, learning to predict what you're supposed to do in a situation, and it's amazing to see.
After taking a bit of a break to work on your motor skills, your babbling is back in full force. You are making all kinds of wonderful "babababa!" and "guh!" sounds. We have the most delightful conversations, taking turns babbling to each other. You seem to think I'm pretty funny to talk to. I hope you always think that.
You are sleeping fully unswaddled now, and are still just as unpredictable as ever in your sleep patterns. You might sleep all the way until 6 a.m., or you might wake up at midnight, or anywhere in between. The good news is that once I come in and feed you, you fall right back asleep. In fact, several nights you have laughed while drifting off to sleep nursing, and it more than makes up for the fact that I'm still getting up with you. Often times our middle-of-the-night nursing sessions are the only calm, quiet, still moments in my entire day. I love the snuggles, and those sleepy laughs in the middle of the night might be one of my favorite things ever.
You are still my amazingly happy little man. You are so incredibly easy going. You are happy to be carted around all over the place, and you always have the most ready, adorable smile to greet anyone and everyone with. Your smile just lights up your entire face. Someone once told me it seems like you even smile with your ears! But you save your very best smiles just for me. My absolute favorite part of the day is walking in to see you, whether it's in the morning, or picking you up from school, or just getting home from running an errand. As soon as you see me, your face breaks into the brightest grin and you kick your feet with joy. I LOVE it. You make me so wildly happy!
This month is going to hold lots of exciting things for you, little man. We will be staring solid foods around 6 months, and while I have loved the fact that every ounce of healthy growth you've had since birth has been from my milk, solid foods are so fun and I can't wait for you to start experimenting with them! I figure it won't be too long before you learn how to move forward instead of only in reverse, and the fact that you can sit up while you play now will open up a whole new world for you, a world where both your hands are available for playing instead of just support.
Even though growing brings so many exciting things, it also brings some other changes as well. I won't be going to nurse you during the day at school anymore. You have gotten big enough where you don't need to be eating every three hours anymore, so your schedule is shifting. I will miss our middle-of-the-day snuggles so much.
I love you, sweet little boy. I love your smile, your kicks of joy, your ready, open delight with everything in the world around you. I love your easy-going nature. I love how you can't take your eyes off your sister, how you love it when she hugs you, how you constantly try to touch her and play with her. I love when I'm holding you, and you're looking around at the world, and then you suddenly bury your face back into my shoulder, as if you couldn't bear to go one more second without a mom snuggle.
You bring so much light to our lives. I can't wait to see what this next month holds in store for you.
Love forever and ever,
Mom
Today you are five months old. Five months! It sounds like such a big-boy age. Gone are your newborn days. Gone is my saying, "He's only four months old. He's still so young." Because now you're five months. That's like, in the middle of your first year.
I shouldn't really be surprised at how old your age sounds. You are doing so many things that prove to me every day how much (and how fast) you are growing and changing! You can sit up on your own now, fully unsupported (not even tripod-sitting anymore!) for 30 seconds to a minute. You could probably go longer, but that's about how long it takes you to become suddenly fascinated with something on the other side of the room, or behind you, and you whip your head around and topple over, your body not yet quite adept at compensating for that kind of movement. But sitting! On your own! When five short months ago, you were such a tiny, squirmy, helpless little thing. The first year is truly amazing.
You can also push up onto straight arms when lying on your tummy now, and once or twice have actually gotten up onto your hands and knees. I know true mobility isn't far off, because you can push yourself backwards all over the place now. You see something you want in front of you, and then end up pushing yourself backwards. You get so frustrated, but it's so cute that I can't help but smile. Your teacher at school told me that you pushed yourself all the way under a crib one day and she had to crawl under the crib to get you!
You can turn the pages of the books we read you before bed. You can pull your arms out of sleeves when we are taking off your coat or long-sleeved shirt. You are learning routines, learning to predict what you're supposed to do in a situation, and it's amazing to see.
After taking a bit of a break to work on your motor skills, your babbling is back in full force. You are making all kinds of wonderful "babababa!" and "guh!" sounds. We have the most delightful conversations, taking turns babbling to each other. You seem to think I'm pretty funny to talk to. I hope you always think that.
You are sleeping fully unswaddled now, and are still just as unpredictable as ever in your sleep patterns. You might sleep all the way until 6 a.m., or you might wake up at midnight, or anywhere in between. The good news is that once I come in and feed you, you fall right back asleep. In fact, several nights you have laughed while drifting off to sleep nursing, and it more than makes up for the fact that I'm still getting up with you. Often times our middle-of-the-night nursing sessions are the only calm, quiet, still moments in my entire day. I love the snuggles, and those sleepy laughs in the middle of the night might be one of my favorite things ever.
You are still my amazingly happy little man. You are so incredibly easy going. You are happy to be carted around all over the place, and you always have the most ready, adorable smile to greet anyone and everyone with. Your smile just lights up your entire face. Someone once told me it seems like you even smile with your ears! But you save your very best smiles just for me. My absolute favorite part of the day is walking in to see you, whether it's in the morning, or picking you up from school, or just getting home from running an errand. As soon as you see me, your face breaks into the brightest grin and you kick your feet with joy. I LOVE it. You make me so wildly happy!
This month is going to hold lots of exciting things for you, little man. We will be staring solid foods around 6 months, and while I have loved the fact that every ounce of healthy growth you've had since birth has been from my milk, solid foods are so fun and I can't wait for you to start experimenting with them! I figure it won't be too long before you learn how to move forward instead of only in reverse, and the fact that you can sit up while you play now will open up a whole new world for you, a world where both your hands are available for playing instead of just support.
Even though growing brings so many exciting things, it also brings some other changes as well. I won't be going to nurse you during the day at school anymore. You have gotten big enough where you don't need to be eating every three hours anymore, so your schedule is shifting. I will miss our middle-of-the-day snuggles so much.
I love you, sweet little boy. I love your smile, your kicks of joy, your ready, open delight with everything in the world around you. I love your easy-going nature. I love how you can't take your eyes off your sister, how you love it when she hugs you, how you constantly try to touch her and play with her. I love when I'm holding you, and you're looking around at the world, and then you suddenly bury your face back into my shoulder, as if you couldn't bear to go one more second without a mom snuggle.
You bring so much light to our lives. I can't wait to see what this next month holds in store for you.
Love forever and ever,
Mom
Monday, October 24, 2011
Hugs
We spent Friday evening at a restaurant with an outdoor playscape. The motivation here is really twofold: by Friday, I am d.o.n.e. trying to rush home and cook dinner, and the weather has been so nice, we love having somewhere to go where baby girl can play while waiting on dinner and where we can eat outside.
After we finished our meal and she was getting in five more minutes of playtime, another family showed up, and then another, so what started as quiet solo play on the playscape turned into a full-blown recess with six kids running around. Baby girl, ever the confident, social girl, immediately wandered over to try and interact with some of the kids her age. They kind of just stopped and stared at her. Rather than playing together, they took turns doing something--picking up an acorn, throwing said acorn, jumping, climbing over a low wall--and observing/being observed in return. There wasn't really any talking. It was more what the teacher's at school call "parallel play."
When it was time to go, I walked over and told baby girl to say goodbye. She immediately went in for a hug. Because, you know, that's what you do when you have to leave. You hug the people you've been spending time with. The other little girl, who was just a bit older than baby girl, took a guarded step back. Baby girl hesitated. No one had ever refused a hug before. I saw a look of uncertainty on her face, and she tried to hug the girl again, a bit more cautiously. The girl dodged the hug again.
Suddenly I saw my baby girl lose her confidence. She looked lost. And my heart broke seeing any kind of uncertainty on her face. I know all too well what it feels like to be socially uncomfortable, shy, embarrassed. I wish I could protect her for her entire life from these feelings. I know I can't. But what I can do, what I could do right then, was protect her for that moment, for that evening.
I said, "Aw, are you trying to give her a hug?" She said, "Yeah." "Can you give me a big hug?" I asked her, crouching down and throwing my arms wide. "YES!" she yelled, a smile of relief and love breaking across her face. She threw herself into my arms and gave me the BEST big hug ever, and I carried her off the playground, her arms wrapped tightly around my neck, her head laid down on my shoulder.
I can't always save her. But I will for as long as I'm able.
And I will always be there for her to hug.
After we finished our meal and she was getting in five more minutes of playtime, another family showed up, and then another, so what started as quiet solo play on the playscape turned into a full-blown recess with six kids running around. Baby girl, ever the confident, social girl, immediately wandered over to try and interact with some of the kids her age. They kind of just stopped and stared at her. Rather than playing together, they took turns doing something--picking up an acorn, throwing said acorn, jumping, climbing over a low wall--and observing/being observed in return. There wasn't really any talking. It was more what the teacher's at school call "parallel play."
When it was time to go, I walked over and told baby girl to say goodbye. She immediately went in for a hug. Because, you know, that's what you do when you have to leave. You hug the people you've been spending time with. The other little girl, who was just a bit older than baby girl, took a guarded step back. Baby girl hesitated. No one had ever refused a hug before. I saw a look of uncertainty on her face, and she tried to hug the girl again, a bit more cautiously. The girl dodged the hug again.
Suddenly I saw my baby girl lose her confidence. She looked lost. And my heart broke seeing any kind of uncertainty on her face. I know all too well what it feels like to be socially uncomfortable, shy, embarrassed. I wish I could protect her for her entire life from these feelings. I know I can't. But what I can do, what I could do right then, was protect her for that moment, for that evening.
I said, "Aw, are you trying to give her a hug?" She said, "Yeah." "Can you give me a big hug?" I asked her, crouching down and throwing my arms wide. "YES!" she yelled, a smile of relief and love breaking across her face. She threw herself into my arms and gave me the BEST big hug ever, and I carried her off the playground, her arms wrapped tightly around my neck, her head laid down on my shoulder.
I can't always save her. But I will for as long as I'm able.
And I will always be there for her to hug.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Just When Things Get Hard
:::Glances at blog title:::
How hard can this be? The question that started it all.
Turns out it can actually be pretty damn hard.
Nearly five months in to this two-kid thing, and I must admit that in the ebb and flow of life, we're mired in an ebb. A trough rather than a peak. A low.
Life with two kids is hectic. It's sort of a constant go-go-go of taking care of both of their momentary needs coupled with trying (usually unsuccessfully) to keep our house in livable order.
Take mornings. On the surface, they're pretty straight forward. I shower and get ready while TH gets up and makes my lunch and packs up the pump parts for me. Then I feed little man and get him dressed and ready and wake up baby girl and get her started with milk and breakfast while TH showers and dresses. Then I'm out the door and TH finishes up feeding and dressing baby girl and gets both kids to school on his way to work.
Look a little closer, though, and it's more like this: After hitting snooze three times, I shower and decide (once again) that I only have time to wash my hair and shave my arm pits, so the legs will have to go another day unshaved. I throw my wet hair into a bun and dig through dirty laundry to find my least-wrinkled pair of slacks and try to pick a shirt that will actually button over my bodacious breastfeeding boobs while TH makes my lunch, packs up the pump parts, and tries to keep a very happy morning baby from squealing so loud that he wakes his sister. Then I feed little man and attempt for five minutes to get a burp out of him. He cries because he'd rather be eating than getting burped, and I pray that his crying doesn't wake his sister. He finally burps and douses me with a healthy stream of spit up in the process. I wipe said spit up off my pants and shrug because, who are we kidding, I already had fished them out of the dirty clothes. I finish feeding him, get him dressed, and deposit him in the living room. He can't be on his play mat because he'll roll over and spit up, so I pick the jumperoo. Whilst he is happily playing with the toys on the jumperoo, I go and wake his sister, who is really not ready to wake up yet and is a sleepy landmine waiting to explode when I unwittingly misstep. We go to brush her teeth and she shrieks that she doesn't want toothpaste (misstep. KaBOOM). I try to gather her amazing bed head into a tamed pony tail and she tells me, "I don't want you to do my hair quite yet, mommy!" Well alrighty then. I get her some milk and a muffin for breakfast, and she wanders over, leaving a trail of muffin crumbs in her wake, to say good morning to little man, who has exhausted his interest in the jumperoo toys and is starting to work on his jumping skills, while I search through her closet, and then her clean clothes basket, for some pants to wear in this new colder weather. She yells, "Mommy! WHERE ARE YOU!?!?" from the other side of the house, and no amount of "I'm in your room!" "I'm picking out your clothes!" "I'm right here!" convinces her that I haven't disappeared into nothingness, so I jog back to the living room, where she flashes me a bright smile and asks for yogurt for breakfast. I hear the shower stop as I pour some yogurt into a bowl and baby girl wails "No Mommy help with yogurt! Only Ali do yogurt! ALI DO YOGURT!!!!" (misstep. KaBOOM) and I try to get her to help scrape out the yogurt remnants into the bowl but she wanted to peel off the top and I RUINED IT FOR HER. TH emerges from our room half dressed and baby girl proceeds to beg for a new yogurt just so that she can peel off the top and then asks if she can watch a video and then says she has no poop in her diaper, just pee. I leave them to their conversation and go back to our room to put on my shirt and jewelry and shoes, and TH joins me, baby girl trailing behind, saying, "Daddy's naked. Where's Daddy's shirt? Daddy needs a work shirt from the closet. Which shirt are you going to wear today, Daddy?" I load my bags into the car and come back to kiss the little man good bye and realize his jumping has prompted explode-a-poo up his back and spit up out his front. I leave him sitting there but at least do give TH a heads up rather than letting him discover it for himself 'cause I'm nice like that. I also tell TH that he has to do baby girl's hair. Good luck with that. I kiss baby girl goodbye and she tells me to have a "very good, nice day" and I swoon. I kiss TH goodbye and I'm out.
Evenings are much the same except they involve more crying from the little man because he's hungry and tired. That plus two bath times. And two bed times. And then, THEN we get to look around the house and triage the needs that will make the biggest impact. Dinner and dishes have to be cleaned up, milk has to be readied for the next day, pump parts have to be washed, laundry has to be done (except a lot of time it isn't because it's right next to the baby's room), thank-you notes have to be written, pictures have to be uploaded off my camera, grocery store runs have to be made, bills have to be paid, litter has to be cleaned, trash has to be taken out. Then I pump one more time and collapse into bed until whatever point in the night the little man decides to wake. Which could be absolutely any time between 11 p.m. and 6 a.m. Because routine? Predictability? That would be too easy. When he wakes, TH goes in first to try and rock him back to sleep, but I don't know why we keep doing that because he can never rock him back to sleep any more, so inevitably he gets frustrated and then comes to wake me up to feed the little guy. And I do. And those 20ish minutes nursing my baby in the middle of the night are the only calm, quiet, slow moments in my life. And then I climb back into bed for anywhere from 6 hours to 30 minutes more of sleep and then my alarm goes off and I hit snooze and it starts all over again.
Like I said. Hectic.
And the thing is, I kind of love it. I love my life. I feel like I've hit my stride parenting two kids, like it's just the right amount of hard.
But TH . . . well . . . not so much. It's too much crazy for him. Too much hectic. Too much chaos. He wants to be able to control things too closely, and he can't, and it drives him crazy. And then his culture kicks in, his upbringing, and all the training he had as a child to focus on the negative and lament the difficulties in life. He constantly asks me when little man will be sleeping through the night, when our lives will be easier. And I get weighed down because I don't notice the bad until he points it out. And it makes me feel like he is unhappy with our crazy, wonderful lives.
So I get frustrated with his frustration. We bicker. We start to feel isolated from each other, which only makes dealing with our lives more difficult because now we feel like less a team and more like trying to take it all on by ourselves. And now that little man is getting older, TH is starting to become more involved in work outside of work hours. He had a golf thing on Sunday. He had a dinner last night. I've been watching the kids more and more on my own. So in addition to feeling emotionally isolated, I feel literally more alone as well.
So it's been a long haul of that. Of constant crazies, of frustrations breeding frustrations, of bickering, of interrupted sleep, of go-go-going. And I've been feeling more and more down. More and more unhappy. And last night, while he was out at his business dinner, little man was crying out of tiredness (he slept all of 75 minutes TOTAL ALL DAY at school), I was trying to make dinner and keep him happy and keep baby girl entertained. I ended up nursing him at the dinner table while trying to read baby girl a book at the same time andplusalso trying to feed myself and I thought how much easier it would all be if I were an octopus mom because surely they have enough hands to do these three things at once with ease and thought, well, even if we are bickering when he's home, at least when TH is here he can help hold the baby. Dinner ended and I was trying my best to incorporate cleaning up the kitchen into our post-dinner dance party (which baby girl quickly caught onto and wanted nothing of) and my god I just needed to pee for just a second. So I put the baby in his jumperoo (cue meltdown) and went to the rest room and realized baby girl wasn't with me, trying to see the pee come out of my body, trying to help me wipe, trying to talk my ear off. In fact, she was strangely quiet. So I hurry out of the rest room and she's there, next to her crying brother, trying to hand him one of his toys with one hand and stroking his head with her other hand.
And my heart exploded.
She saw me and told me with a troubled expression, "Baby brother is crying." I told her "I know, we'll fix it." And I picked him up and he stopped crying and she smiled and said "I helped him not be sad," and I realized that as crazy as my life is, the opportunity to have another child, to see my first born grow into such an amazing, caring, sweet big sister is worth every moment when I look around shell shocked and wonder which task out of the 50 staring me in the face I should tackle next. That one moment is worth it all.
And then last night, after little man woke up at 11 p.m. and TH tried for 30 minutes to rock him back to sleep before coming in to wake me and tell me with a whimper that he just didn't know what to do anymore and me telling him that I would fix it, after little man and I got situated in the nursing chair and settled in, after he ate and ate and pulled at my nose with his hands and tried to look around his dark room while still latched on, just as he was finally, finally drifting off to sleep, he laughed. He laughed in his sleep, and I have no idea what he found so funny. Maybe he was thinking about all the ways he runs his parents ragged. But there, in the dark of his room, he laughed and it was awesome. And that one moment made up for the fact that three out of the four members of our family were awake when we all should have been sleeping.
And then this morning, after another tense morning between me and TH, after more complaining about little man's sleep habits on his part and more shutting down and frustrated good byes on my part, TH called me on his way to work, after he'd dropped off the kids. "I love you," he said. "There's nothing else. No trying to get sex, no complaining, nothing I need from you. I just wanted to tell you that I love you." And I smiled. That one simple phrase is sometimes all I need to hear, especially when I'm not expecting it, to make me get past all the other crap we have going on between us.
Just when I feel so weighed down that the hard starts to be bigger than the wonderful, life has a way of keeping me going. Of reminding me why. Of making it all worth it.
How hard can this be? Really fucking hard.
But really fucking wonderful, too.
How hard can this be? The question that started it all.
Turns out it can actually be pretty damn hard.
Nearly five months in to this two-kid thing, and I must admit that in the ebb and flow of life, we're mired in an ebb. A trough rather than a peak. A low.
Life with two kids is hectic. It's sort of a constant go-go-go of taking care of both of their momentary needs coupled with trying (usually unsuccessfully) to keep our house in livable order.
Take mornings. On the surface, they're pretty straight forward. I shower and get ready while TH gets up and makes my lunch and packs up the pump parts for me. Then I feed little man and get him dressed and ready and wake up baby girl and get her started with milk and breakfast while TH showers and dresses. Then I'm out the door and TH finishes up feeding and dressing baby girl and gets both kids to school on his way to work.
Look a little closer, though, and it's more like this: After hitting snooze three times, I shower and decide (once again) that I only have time to wash my hair and shave my arm pits, so the legs will have to go another day unshaved. I throw my wet hair into a bun and dig through dirty laundry to find my least-wrinkled pair of slacks and try to pick a shirt that will actually button over my bodacious breastfeeding boobs while TH makes my lunch, packs up the pump parts, and tries to keep a very happy morning baby from squealing so loud that he wakes his sister. Then I feed little man and attempt for five minutes to get a burp out of him. He cries because he'd rather be eating than getting burped, and I pray that his crying doesn't wake his sister. He finally burps and douses me with a healthy stream of spit up in the process. I wipe said spit up off my pants and shrug because, who are we kidding, I already had fished them out of the dirty clothes. I finish feeding him, get him dressed, and deposit him in the living room. He can't be on his play mat because he'll roll over and spit up, so I pick the jumperoo. Whilst he is happily playing with the toys on the jumperoo, I go and wake his sister, who is really not ready to wake up yet and is a sleepy landmine waiting to explode when I unwittingly misstep. We go to brush her teeth and she shrieks that she doesn't want toothpaste (misstep. KaBOOM). I try to gather her amazing bed head into a tamed pony tail and she tells me, "I don't want you to do my hair quite yet, mommy!" Well alrighty then. I get her some milk and a muffin for breakfast, and she wanders over, leaving a trail of muffin crumbs in her wake, to say good morning to little man, who has exhausted his interest in the jumperoo toys and is starting to work on his jumping skills, while I search through her closet, and then her clean clothes basket, for some pants to wear in this new colder weather. She yells, "Mommy! WHERE ARE YOU!?!?" from the other side of the house, and no amount of "I'm in your room!" "I'm picking out your clothes!" "I'm right here!" convinces her that I haven't disappeared into nothingness, so I jog back to the living room, where she flashes me a bright smile and asks for yogurt for breakfast. I hear the shower stop as I pour some yogurt into a bowl and baby girl wails "No Mommy help with yogurt! Only Ali do yogurt! ALI DO YOGURT!!!!" (misstep. KaBOOM) and I try to get her to help scrape out the yogurt remnants into the bowl but she wanted to peel off the top and I RUINED IT FOR HER. TH emerges from our room half dressed and baby girl proceeds to beg for a new yogurt just so that she can peel off the top and then asks if she can watch a video and then says she has no poop in her diaper, just pee. I leave them to their conversation and go back to our room to put on my shirt and jewelry and shoes, and TH joins me, baby girl trailing behind, saying, "Daddy's naked. Where's Daddy's shirt? Daddy needs a work shirt from the closet. Which shirt are you going to wear today, Daddy?" I load my bags into the car and come back to kiss the little man good bye and realize his jumping has prompted explode-a-poo up his back and spit up out his front. I leave him sitting there but at least do give TH a heads up rather than letting him discover it for himself 'cause I'm nice like that. I also tell TH that he has to do baby girl's hair. Good luck with that. I kiss baby girl goodbye and she tells me to have a "very good, nice day" and I swoon. I kiss TH goodbye and I'm out.
Evenings are much the same except they involve more crying from the little man because he's hungry and tired. That plus two bath times. And two bed times. And then, THEN we get to look around the house and triage the needs that will make the biggest impact. Dinner and dishes have to be cleaned up, milk has to be readied for the next day, pump parts have to be washed, laundry has to be done (except a lot of time it isn't because it's right next to the baby's room), thank-you notes have to be written, pictures have to be uploaded off my camera, grocery store runs have to be made, bills have to be paid, litter has to be cleaned, trash has to be taken out. Then I pump one more time and collapse into bed until whatever point in the night the little man decides to wake. Which could be absolutely any time between 11 p.m. and 6 a.m. Because routine? Predictability? That would be too easy. When he wakes, TH goes in first to try and rock him back to sleep, but I don't know why we keep doing that because he can never rock him back to sleep any more, so inevitably he gets frustrated and then comes to wake me up to feed the little guy. And I do. And those 20ish minutes nursing my baby in the middle of the night are the only calm, quiet, slow moments in my life. And then I climb back into bed for anywhere from 6 hours to 30 minutes more of sleep and then my alarm goes off and I hit snooze and it starts all over again.
Like I said. Hectic.
And the thing is, I kind of love it. I love my life. I feel like I've hit my stride parenting two kids, like it's just the right amount of hard.
But TH . . . well . . . not so much. It's too much crazy for him. Too much hectic. Too much chaos. He wants to be able to control things too closely, and he can't, and it drives him crazy. And then his culture kicks in, his upbringing, and all the training he had as a child to focus on the negative and lament the difficulties in life. He constantly asks me when little man will be sleeping through the night, when our lives will be easier. And I get weighed down because I don't notice the bad until he points it out. And it makes me feel like he is unhappy with our crazy, wonderful lives.
So I get frustrated with his frustration. We bicker. We start to feel isolated from each other, which only makes dealing with our lives more difficult because now we feel like less a team and more like trying to take it all on by ourselves. And now that little man is getting older, TH is starting to become more involved in work outside of work hours. He had a golf thing on Sunday. He had a dinner last night. I've been watching the kids more and more on my own. So in addition to feeling emotionally isolated, I feel literally more alone as well.
So it's been a long haul of that. Of constant crazies, of frustrations breeding frustrations, of bickering, of interrupted sleep, of go-go-going. And I've been feeling more and more down. More and more unhappy. And last night, while he was out at his business dinner, little man was crying out of tiredness (he slept all of 75 minutes TOTAL ALL DAY at school), I was trying to make dinner and keep him happy and keep baby girl entertained. I ended up nursing him at the dinner table while trying to read baby girl a book at the same time andplusalso trying to feed myself and I thought how much easier it would all be if I were an octopus mom because surely they have enough hands to do these three things at once with ease and thought, well, even if we are bickering when he's home, at least when TH is here he can help hold the baby. Dinner ended and I was trying my best to incorporate cleaning up the kitchen into our post-dinner dance party (which baby girl quickly caught onto and wanted nothing of) and my god I just needed to pee for just a second. So I put the baby in his jumperoo (cue meltdown) and went to the rest room and realized baby girl wasn't with me, trying to see the pee come out of my body, trying to help me wipe, trying to talk my ear off. In fact, she was strangely quiet. So I hurry out of the rest room and she's there, next to her crying brother, trying to hand him one of his toys with one hand and stroking his head with her other hand.
And my heart exploded.
She saw me and told me with a troubled expression, "Baby brother is crying." I told her "I know, we'll fix it." And I picked him up and he stopped crying and she smiled and said "I helped him not be sad," and I realized that as crazy as my life is, the opportunity to have another child, to see my first born grow into such an amazing, caring, sweet big sister is worth every moment when I look around shell shocked and wonder which task out of the 50 staring me in the face I should tackle next. That one moment is worth it all.
And then last night, after little man woke up at 11 p.m. and TH tried for 30 minutes to rock him back to sleep before coming in to wake me and tell me with a whimper that he just didn't know what to do anymore and me telling him that I would fix it, after little man and I got situated in the nursing chair and settled in, after he ate and ate and pulled at my nose with his hands and tried to look around his dark room while still latched on, just as he was finally, finally drifting off to sleep, he laughed. He laughed in his sleep, and I have no idea what he found so funny. Maybe he was thinking about all the ways he runs his parents ragged. But there, in the dark of his room, he laughed and it was awesome. And that one moment made up for the fact that three out of the four members of our family were awake when we all should have been sleeping.
And then this morning, after another tense morning between me and TH, after more complaining about little man's sleep habits on his part and more shutting down and frustrated good byes on my part, TH called me on his way to work, after he'd dropped off the kids. "I love you," he said. "There's nothing else. No trying to get sex, no complaining, nothing I need from you. I just wanted to tell you that I love you." And I smiled. That one simple phrase is sometimes all I need to hear, especially when I'm not expecting it, to make me get past all the other crap we have going on between us.
Just when I feel so weighed down that the hard starts to be bigger than the wonderful, life has a way of keeping me going. Of reminding me why. Of making it all worth it.
How hard can this be? Really fucking hard.
But really fucking wonderful, too.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
I Don't Think I Can Do It
My husband's company sends all employees on an all-expenses paid trip somewhere tropical if they surpass their numbers for the year. The trip was supposed to fall this month, and I told my husband up front that there was simply no way I could go. With Little Man being only 4 months old, there would be no way I would be comfortable enough to leave him for three days, even if we were leaving him with my parents, who I trust just about as much as I trust myself.
He was super sad. Understandably. He felt like he had earned the trip, and after the stress of having two kids in two years with zero vacations, felt like the break would be welcome. But then he thought about leaving me behind, to deal with our two children on my own, while he was boozing and resting it up on a beach somewhere. He thought about how much that would eat away at him while he was there, and how he wouldn't really be able to enjoy himself when he was constantly feeling guilty about being there with me being here. So he told his company he couldn't go. My hero.
Then, THEN, there was an email from the company saying too many people couldn't go, so they were bumping the trip back to the end of January of next year, and he forwarded the email to me with "OMFGGGGGGGGG!!" as his only commentary. My husband simply doesn't lose control like that in emails. To have multiple Gs and TWO exclamation points made clear to me that he was beside himself with joy. He felt like his deciding to do the right thing and stay home the first time was now being karmically rewarded by a trip that was late enough where we could both go. And I just couldn't tell him no.
So I said yes. Yes, I'd leave my 8-month-old baby behind with my parents (not to mention what we'd do with our 2-yr-old . . . an extended weekend with my ILs . . . ack) and haul my pump down to Latin America for a 3-day vacation. He gave me some grief about the pump, asking if we could just dump all the milk while we were there so that I wouldn't have to worry about things like not drinking and the logistics of getting all that milk back with us. I may or may not have snapped back at him to never ever ever never mention dumping any of my milk ever for any reason.
So he dropped the subject. But I didn't. I kept thinking about the damn trip. About the stress of having to pump 4-5 times a day, of not being able to go on excursions, of having to constantly excuse myself, of risking a supply dip from solely pumping for three days, of risking a nursing strike upon my return, of how much I would(n't) *really* be able to relax worrying about all of those details and then heaping upon that worry the worry of what are my kids doing, what are they eating, are they sleeping, are they crying, what are they wearing, omg I need to hear their voices! And every time I thought about the trip, my stomach would knot and my heart would thump a little harder in my chest.
And then, once, a couple of days ago, I allowed myself to think, what if I don't go? And the relief, oh the sweet relief, was palpable. I could spend the weekend with my kids. I wouldn't have to worry about looking like I'm trying to have fun while really dying on the inside. I could nurse Little Man like normal and not have to worry about any of the 100 things I was worrying about when it came to pumping for three days while on vacation in a foreign country. And TH could still get his vacation. My parents could still come in for the weekend and spend time with us, so I wouldn't be on my own the whole time, and he would still get his trip and his fun that he earned.
It's not that I'm one of those moms who can't leave her kids. I can. I have (my oldest, at least). I appreciate me time. I miss vacations with my husband. But I don't feel bad about not being ready to leave my 8-month-old, who is still nursing around the clock and more often than not, not sleeping through the night. Give me a year. Give me until he's weaned. Give me until my body belongs just to me again so that I can really and truly enjoy the break without worrying about making sure I still devote my body to my obligations and responsibilities to my baby.
It's not that I've opted out of the trip. Not yet, anyway. When I think about not going, it makes me sad that I'm going to miss something so fun. But the stress I feel when I think about going outweighs the sadness I feel when I think about missing it.
And what I hope is that my husband can see that. That he can understand my obligations and responsibilities. That he can understand my need to be around for the first year. That he can forgive me staying home and taking away the couple's vacation he had dreamed about sharing with me.
That he has faith that, in time, it will be our time again. It's just not right now. It's just not yet.
He was super sad. Understandably. He felt like he had earned the trip, and after the stress of having two kids in two years with zero vacations, felt like the break would be welcome. But then he thought about leaving me behind, to deal with our two children on my own, while he was boozing and resting it up on a beach somewhere. He thought about how much that would eat away at him while he was there, and how he wouldn't really be able to enjoy himself when he was constantly feeling guilty about being there with me being here. So he told his company he couldn't go. My hero.
Then, THEN, there was an email from the company saying too many people couldn't go, so they were bumping the trip back to the end of January of next year, and he forwarded the email to me with "OMFGGGGGGGGG!!" as his only commentary. My husband simply doesn't lose control like that in emails. To have multiple Gs and TWO exclamation points made clear to me that he was beside himself with joy. He felt like his deciding to do the right thing and stay home the first time was now being karmically rewarded by a trip that was late enough where we could both go. And I just couldn't tell him no.
So I said yes. Yes, I'd leave my 8-month-old baby behind with my parents (not to mention what we'd do with our 2-yr-old . . . an extended weekend with my ILs . . . ack) and haul my pump down to Latin America for a 3-day vacation. He gave me some grief about the pump, asking if we could just dump all the milk while we were there so that I wouldn't have to worry about things like not drinking and the logistics of getting all that milk back with us. I may or may not have snapped back at him to never ever ever never mention dumping any of my milk ever for any reason.
So he dropped the subject. But I didn't. I kept thinking about the damn trip. About the stress of having to pump 4-5 times a day, of not being able to go on excursions, of having to constantly excuse myself, of risking a supply dip from solely pumping for three days, of risking a nursing strike upon my return, of how much I would(n't) *really* be able to relax worrying about all of those details and then heaping upon that worry the worry of what are my kids doing, what are they eating, are they sleeping, are they crying, what are they wearing, omg I need to hear their voices! And every time I thought about the trip, my stomach would knot and my heart would thump a little harder in my chest.
And then, once, a couple of days ago, I allowed myself to think, what if I don't go? And the relief, oh the sweet relief, was palpable. I could spend the weekend with my kids. I wouldn't have to worry about looking like I'm trying to have fun while really dying on the inside. I could nurse Little Man like normal and not have to worry about any of the 100 things I was worrying about when it came to pumping for three days while on vacation in a foreign country. And TH could still get his vacation. My parents could still come in for the weekend and spend time with us, so I wouldn't be on my own the whole time, and he would still get his trip and his fun that he earned.
It's not that I'm one of those moms who can't leave her kids. I can. I have (my oldest, at least). I appreciate me time. I miss vacations with my husband. But I don't feel bad about not being ready to leave my 8-month-old, who is still nursing around the clock and more often than not, not sleeping through the night. Give me a year. Give me until he's weaned. Give me until my body belongs just to me again so that I can really and truly enjoy the break without worrying about making sure I still devote my body to my obligations and responsibilities to my baby.
It's not that I've opted out of the trip. Not yet, anyway. When I think about not going, it makes me sad that I'm going to miss something so fun. But the stress I feel when I think about going outweighs the sadness I feel when I think about missing it.
And what I hope is that my husband can see that. That he can understand my obligations and responsibilities. That he can understand my need to be around for the first year. That he can forgive me staying home and taking away the couple's vacation he had dreamed about sharing with me.
That he has faith that, in time, it will be our time again. It's just not right now. It's just not yet.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
If I Knew You Better
If I knew you better, I might hug you and tell you how lucky she was to have only ever known you. The only warmth she ever knew was your perfect warmth. The only sound she ever knew was the sound of your heart. The only feeling she ever knew was the feeling of being completely wrapped in her mother's safe embrace.
She never knew cold, she never knew dissonance, she never knew solitude.
But I don't know you better, so all I say is that I'm so sorry for your loss.
She never knew cold, she never knew dissonance, she never knew solitude.
But I don't know you better, so all I say is that I'm so sorry for your loss.
Friday, October 7, 2011
A Lost Infinity
I had my annual earlier this week. Not only is my OBGYN amazeballs for the number of ultrasounds we get while pregnant, we also get them at our annuals. You know, to check out things on the inside. Make sure it's all looking good and whatnot.
My uterus--perfect. And with a beautiful, thick lining, meaning I'm about to ovulate and it's preparing itself for a nice little nutritional bed for the fertilized egg to nestle down into. (That's right. Ovulating. I'm one of the super lucky ones who gets her monthly cycle despite the fact that I'm breast feeding. Yay!)
Right ovary--perfect.
Left ovary--with one big 22mm follicle. It looked like a big, black ball on the u/s screen. The doctor said that's what it looks like right before rupturing. Right before releasing the egg.
I look at that screen, that follicle, that about-to-be-released egg, and I feel a pang of sadness. In that egg is an infinity of future. Who would that egg have become? A person who will never be. And that person's actions will never be. The people who would have known that person will never be impacted by him or her. There are more babies (my grandbabies) who will never exist. And their children. And so on. On and on and on.
A lost infinity.
I look at my two beautiful children, and I know what potential that egg has. What potential for beauty and miracles.
And I almost feel like apologizing to it. I'm sorry you'll never become what you have the potential to become.
And I suddenly get a glimpse of what it must be like to be one of those women who just keeps having baby after baby after baby. To be able to continue to give the gift of life, to continue to enable these infinities inside me to come into being, to exist. What a thing that is.
There will be no baby 9 months from now. This egg won't catch fire. But still I think of it inside me, knowing it's there, ready, waiting. And I love it for its potential, for the only window it will ever have with me.
And I'm suddenly glad I got to see it. And glad that I won't see any more for at least a year. I don't want to be reminded every month of what could be, but isn't.
My uterus--perfect. And with a beautiful, thick lining, meaning I'm about to ovulate and it's preparing itself for a nice little nutritional bed for the fertilized egg to nestle down into. (That's right. Ovulating. I'm one of the super lucky ones who gets her monthly cycle despite the fact that I'm breast feeding. Yay!)
Right ovary--perfect.
Left ovary--with one big 22mm follicle. It looked like a big, black ball on the u/s screen. The doctor said that's what it looks like right before rupturing. Right before releasing the egg.
I look at that screen, that follicle, that about-to-be-released egg, and I feel a pang of sadness. In that egg is an infinity of future. Who would that egg have become? A person who will never be. And that person's actions will never be. The people who would have known that person will never be impacted by him or her. There are more babies (my grandbabies) who will never exist. And their children. And so on. On and on and on.
A lost infinity.
I look at my two beautiful children, and I know what potential that egg has. What potential for beauty and miracles.
And I almost feel like apologizing to it. I'm sorry you'll never become what you have the potential to become.
And I suddenly get a glimpse of what it must be like to be one of those women who just keeps having baby after baby after baby. To be able to continue to give the gift of life, to continue to enable these infinities inside me to come into being, to exist. What a thing that is.
There will be no baby 9 months from now. This egg won't catch fire. But still I think of it inside me, knowing it's there, ready, waiting. And I love it for its potential, for the only window it will ever have with me.
And I'm suddenly glad I got to see it. And glad that I won't see any more for at least a year. I don't want to be reminded every month of what could be, but isn't.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
