Category Archives: motherhood

Approaching one

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One day old

Emerson is on a fast train rapidly approaching the one-year mark. And I have two things to say. Number one: why? I mean…WHY?! Can she please just be a bitty baby for a little longer? Can I go back to this time last year?! Seriously, can we not do this? Thanks. Number two: I hate you Pinterest (but also, am completely bat shit obsessed with you….thank you for existing…p.s. follow me y’all). You, all mighty P, have significantly compounded the stress/pressure some mamas feel (hand raised right here) to throw a party for their one-year-old. The same one-year-old who will never remember her first birthday. I’ve been casually collecting ideas here and there for this event, but yesterday typed “first birthday” into the search bar on both Pinterest and Etsy…and nearly collapsed in an anxiety attack. Too. many. ideas. Too. many. COMPLICATED/TIME-INTENSIVE. ideas.
 

So, number one. Yes, I often always write about the conflicting emotions that are part and parcel with motherhood—that unrestrained joy/overwhelming mournfulness combo that plagues most mamas. The simultaneous cheek massage (on account of all the smiling) and tissue box conundrum, as it were. It’s in the air most days, but there are obviously times when it’s especially potent. Major milestones, for sure. But, the day that your child is no longer measured by days, weeks, or months…..I can’t even. I’ve still got about six weeks left with a 0-year-old and I’m already getting dramatic.

I’m just waiting for the day that Emerson grows a full head of hair, talks to me in real words, then gets up and runs across the room. It feels like that will all happen in an instant, and then she’ll be gone. I can’t help but already dread the day she moves out of our house….and I don’t want to share her with the world, damn it! I mean, I’m not supposed to say that. And I don’t really mean it. But, sometimes I do. Sometimes, I can’t help but feel selfish and impractical and overprotective. Because, that’s my baby, world! I grew her, and held her in my belly for nine months. I felt connected to her—body, mind, and soul. I birthed her. My muscles, my strength, my love, pushed her out into the open. I was the beginning of her life. And she has not strayed from my body for more than an hour or two since then. So, how can I imagine a day when our lives are running parallel instead of completely intertwined? Right now, it’s simply impossible and anxiety-provoking to consider.

But, I will share her with the world. Of course. In fact, it’s already one of my biggest joys. I feel so fulfilled and ecstatic when I watch her interact with family, friends, and other mamas and babies at our groups and classes. And to see how she is received by them….just amazing. It’s so comforting to watch a support system/community/safety net grow around her…to watch people fall in love with her. So, I’m glad the world is there to receive her, but I will forever hold tightly (in spirit) that 8-pound newborn with her enormous cheeks, curious eyes and heart-melting coos. How can I ever let her go?

And then there’s number two. Is it just me, or do all moms feel this pressure to throw well-styled, extravagant (as far as effort and detail…or money) parties? I am not a party thrower. Other than the occasional small dinner party, it’s not really in my constitution. But, more importantly, it’s not something I have the time/energy/desire to take on these days given I am the primary care provider for my child. We don’t have family nearby, we don’t have a babysitter, or a nanny, or daycare. And my husband is out of the house most hours that Emerson is awake. So, it’s me. All me. When do I have time to sit and craft/cook/shop/decorate the day away in preparation for a Pinterst-y party? Pretty much never, folks.

Yet I am bombarded with pictures in my FB newsfeeds of elaborate children’s parties my “friends” have thrown, and an insane amount of info out there on the inter-webs when searching for just a few, simple ideas. Pinterest, for instance, can really make a person feel like they are totally failing at life. Like it should be no problem to make a fantastic spread of food and desserts from scratch, sew party clothes for the entire family, make all the decorations and invitations and favors by hand, and have a pristine house on party day thanks to the slew of 30-point “how to perfectly clean your entire house” lists you have pinned. And, of course, make all of the above really cute and creative and just pure genius. Maybe I had the time for that when I was childless, and maybe I will again in the future, but as the mother of an almost-one-year old without any help, I say, “back off, internet.”

For some reason, though, just knowing all these Pinterest-y ideas exist makes it impossible for me to ignore them. I so want to ignore them, I so want to keep it simple. But, I’m drawn to create and as obnoxious as I find all the party planning boards out there, I am also inspired by them. Because, those cakes and handmade decorations are beautiful. But, I hate them. But, they exist. And they are beautiful. Sigh.

So, I am throwing a party for Emerson. And, I will somehow, someway, probably put way more effort into it than need be. Because, I can’t deny that it feels like a MAJOR milestone for me. For us, as a family. And as crazy as throwing a party is going to make me, I count myself blessed for having extended family that wouldn’t dream of missing Emerson’s first birthday.

 

Here’s hoping I make it through the next six weeks without an anxiety attack! What will send me over the edge first: my baby turning one, or throwing a party for our entire family?

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A quiet room

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I fantasize about frolicking sometimes. Like, just straight up frolicking around a grassy meadow—skipping and cartwheeling and spinning in circles, because I can….because my body belongs to only me in that moment. Or, running for miles and miles. Not for exercise, just to feel the fresh air smacking my face as my body soars above the pavement without any passengers on my front or back, without anyone pulling on my pant leg. Sometimes I imagine myself in the body care section of Whole Foods, smelling every soap and shampoo and candle they have to offer—reading the backs of all the packages so I know exactly what I’m buying. For hours. Just standing in Whole Foods, asking questions about tea tree oil and yoga mat spray without interruption from a tiny mouth begging for milk. Or I picture myself sitting in an over-sized arm chair in an urban coffee shop, glutting myself on caffeinated beverages and pastries, reading a book and staring out the window. There I am soothed by the lull of muffled conversations and terrible light jazz pouring from ceiling speakers…and an absence of whining and repetitive talking toys.

All of this sounds horrible to my husband. But, then, he’s not a mother (or a woman). The only way he can make sense of my daydreams is to recall the movie Date Night. “It’s like the Diet Sprite in an empty room, right?” he asks quite frequently.

“Yes, exactly,” I say. And it is.

“There are times when I’ve just thought about, on my worst day, just, you know, leaving our house and going some place. Like checking into a hotel and just being in a quiet room by myself. Just sitting in a quiet air-conditioned room, sitting down, eating my lunch with no one touching me, drinking a Diet Sprite, by myself.”
~Date Night

I am deeply appreciative of my ability to stay home, honored by the eight billion requests for my attention/arms/love every day, unendingly comforted by the comfort my child derives from my breast, flattered by my celebrity type status around these parts. I try to soak up every bit of baby magic Emerson doles out, and remind myself (as many times a day as necessary) that I will truly miss being this needed. As difficult as raising a child is, I am acutely aware that someday this will all be gone. The child, and the bond will remain, but this……this “I need you so desperately, please, mama, please, don’t leave me, pick me up, watch this trick, talk to me, sleep next to me, let me stare at you and follow you and play with your hair, mama, mama, MAMA” won’t always exist. It’s the most challenging existence I’ve ever known, but the one I will miss most when it’s over.

Yet, I cannot help but shut my eyes tight sometimes, and try to remember what it felt like to own my own body. Hundreds of images pass through my mind—hiking up mountains, swimming in the Caribbean Sea, sleeping till noon in an empty bed, dancing to bongo drums on a California beach at midnight, long, lazy meals in restaurants. I try to remember what it was like to make every decision based on ME, what it felt like to move freely and at my own pace, how it was to exist as one person instead of two. These memories are like a vacation, a much-needed vacation from all of this. And I think that’s just fine, because as much as I’m drawn to that land of daydreams, I could never stay for very long. I would feel desperate for this. I would need to get home, to Emerson, where I belong.Perhaps someday my “vacations” will grow longer, or turn into real ones. Of course they will. But, for now, I am living in this sacred and temporary vacuum where I am needed.

 

 

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Is this all a dream?

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I had a dream the other night that Emerson died. I know—horrible and depressing, and why discuss it? [Please bear in mind, I am SO upset and agitated even typing those words. It’s unthinkable.] But, I’ve been contemplating this for the past two days and have realized that even ten months after the birth of my child….nay, nineteen and a half months since I learned I was pregnant and Emerson began to exist…it’s still incredibly difficult to believe my new reality. Therein lies the fear: it will all be taken away, because it isn’t real.

I had a hard time accepting that I was truly pregnant for the first few months. I kept taking pregnancy tests to reassure myself that it was actually happening. And when I went in for my first few prenatal appointments, I was sure they were going to tell me I didn’t belong there. Between the tests given to me by my midwives, and the ones I took at home, I had about six tests proving that my doubt was purely psychological. Even so, I was still nervous to see what did or did not live inside my uterus at my 20-week ultrasound. Seeing Emerson bouncing around on the screen reassured me immensely, yet I would still lie awake at night trying to make sense of the tiny being kicking and stretching and rolling around beneath my skin. And, I couldn’t. Not quite.

Then Emerson arrived. She was here. She was warm and squirmy and eating from my breast. And she’s been a constant barnacle to my body since then. Yet, so often I find myself waiting to wake up, waiting for this dream to end. Yes, there is frustration and sleep deprivation and fighting and not enough time for myself and my house is a constant mess and I’m sure this dreamlike state is in part due to the fact that I am half-asleep all the time….but, it’s still too good. It can’t possibly be real, I think to myself.

There’s more. There is also the fact that Emerson’s birth was a death. Childless and motherhood are such opposite extremes. Life B.E. (before Emerson) was all about me—my needs, my problems, my night of sleep, my ambitions and desires, my schedule. I knew there would be an adjustment period after my child was born, and a bit of an identity crisis, but it’s more far-reaching than that. It sometimes feels more like an entirely new life rather than one that is transitioning. I am me, but I’m not. And my life looks strangely familiar, but also totally foreign. I don’t know where that girl who danced on top of a bar on a hot summer night in Spain lives. I have forgotten the adventurer who moved around the country without any fear of risk or uncertainty. I can’t quite recall the silence and freedom of a roommate-less apartment in an exciting city.

And then there are the ghosts. I used to feel the presence of ghosts from my past lurking around, but now I feel the ghosts of my future—an 8-yr-old Emerson running off the school bus toward me, siblings sitting beside one another in the backseat of the car, grown children having conversations over coffee…holding my first grandchild, freshly pushed into the world. Like a dream, I can imagine it, but I can’t. The faces are all blurry and it doesn’t feel real.

But, it is.

I’m left wondering: when will time catch up with reality?

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Sometimes…

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Sometimes, you collapse on the living room floor, put your head down, and cannot move….so you just stay there, breathing in the carpet fibers for a half hour, while your husband takes the baby to play in another room. Sometimes, you let your 9-month-old baby watch fifteen minutes of Strawberry Shortcake, though you vowed not to let her ever watch television until she was three. Sometimes, you feed your baby food from a jar or pouch though you’ve committed yourself to cooking all of her meals from scratch. Sometimes, your plates from last night’s dinner are still sitting on the table, covered in food, at noon the next day. Sometimes, you are still folding last week’s laundry while doing this week’s laundry. Sometimes, it takes you three weeks to return a friend’s email, which you’ve only accomplished by writing one paragraph at a time and saving them all in a file until it’s complete. Sometimes, it takes you a full year to finish reading a book. Sometimes, you fight with your husband when you really meant to say, “I miss you….I miss us.”

Because, you are human. Because, you are a mama. Because, you aren’t capable of perfection, and you cannot do it all.

And that’s okay.

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a lifetime of mama bear pain

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Emerson had her first real accident on Saturday—of the scary, heart-stopping variety, complete with a bloody face and piercing screams. Though I realize accidents and injuries are totally normal and unavoidable, I can’t help but secretly hope there is some sort of childhood loophole my baby can step through so she never gets really hurt. That silly hope is my way of coping with the (still new) reality of parenthood.

I’ve had to process and accept my role as a mama, bit by bit, since the day Emerson was born. It would be far too overwhelming, otherwise. One of the most difficult realities for me to accept, by far, has been the fact that my child will get hurt, physically and emotionally, sometimes terribly so. It started with having blood drawn from the sole of her tiny, tender foot when she was two days old. I hated every minute of that. Emerson was terrified and sobbing (though she was in my arms) and I wanted to punch the man who was doing it to her. The next stage began when Emerson was four-months-old and learned how to sit up on her own, meaning she began to fall and get hurt on a regular basis. I couldn’t stand watching her head smack into the floor, over and over, but eventually we both became more resilient and less upset about her bonkers (as we call them in our house). This weekend, though, we moved past bonkers and into the realm of accidents and injuries, and I would be lying if I said I was okay with any of it. 

Then there’s Alex. He has been able to maintain an even-keel about all of this for the majority of Emerson’s life. He doesn’t get wrapped up in overwrought emotion when Emerson gets hurt, as I tend to do. He sees the big picture, and tries to remind me that every human being gets hurt, and feels afraid as a result. He reminds me that Emerson will be better, stronger, more resilient and complex for having experienced and dealt with pain. He asks me if I think I’d be the same person if I had remained miraculously unscathed by life. And I can’t deny any of his points, I can’t fault him for believing our child will be fine even after he’s seen her face bloody and covered in mud. But, I am a mama bear.

I am a mama bear, and every instinct inside of me says, “protect this child, soothe this child, scoop this child up and unleash your claws in the direction of anyone, or anything that threatens her.” I am a mama bear, and it took me hours to calm down after Emerson’s accident. I could not stop replaying it in my head, nor could I stop myself from having a highly emotional reaction every time I looked at my baby’s scrapped up face. I am a mama bear, and it will require time and practice to be able to let go while knowing that my child is a human being who will grow into an autonomous adult and will meet her fair share of bumps and bruises, heartache and rejection, roadblocks and failures along the way. 


The most difficult part of all of this, for me, is that I thought I knew pain before I became a mother. But, my child’s pain feels more painful than any of my own. My pain was dulled with that one last excruciating push that gave way to a new life nine months ago. And now I must watch as my heart begins to wander farther and farther away from me until I no longer know its exact location on the globe each and every day. 

As difficult as this reality is for me to come to terms with, my husband is right (and somewhere he’s gasping and wondering if I can print this sentence on a banner so we will always remember the day that I said it). Great things can originate from pain. Take Emerson’s life—it began in the midst of pain. Pushing her out of my body was the most physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually challenging experience of my life. It was also the most significant, enriching, beautiful, and unbelievably exhilarating experience of my life. And I wouldn’t change anything about it. I wouldn’t change the fact that I had to wait three (uncomfortable) weeks longer than I thought I would to give birth. I wouldn’t change the fact that I labored for three days, or pushed for three hours, or had to change my plan. I wouldn’t change that I had to re-experience my childhood traumas in order to birth my baby. And I wouldn’t change that I endured great physical pain. Because, all of that is mine and it deeply changed me in ways that I am grateful for. Given the choice, I would not want to be the person I was before I experienced all that pain. 

So then, would I want to deny my daughter the moments that will ultimately define her? 

No.


Here’s what happened: Emerson fell from a moderately high height down onto her head, splitting open her face on our stone steps. The snow outside had been melting in the sun all morning, giving way to a thick layer of mud underneath it, which ended up completely covering her face.  I leapt after her as soon as she fell, but by the time she was in my arms there was blood streaming from her nose, lips and mouth. As scary as this was for us, I realize that this may not be a life-defining moment, but it meant something to me. Processing it has felt like a nod, from me to the Universe, saying, “okay, I understand my role and know I can’t stop the inevitable.” 

I’m not saying that I want Emerson to get hurt, or that it will EVER be easy to watch. But, philosophically speaking, I know that it’s not going to break her.

And so, I will think about how proud I am of my already strong, resilient girl as I apply Neosporin to her wounds. I will remember how well she handled herself in what was the scariest moment of her life thus far. I will smile knowing she has two supportive parents who will be there when she needs us. And, little by little, I will continue to let her go.

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nine months of emerson

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Emerson is only three months away from being a 1-year-old. How can that be?! She has also now been on this earth just as long as she existed inside my body, which is a strange realization that, of course, makes me feel kind of sad. It’s as if time now marks her paces away from me. And quite literally, she’s been taking paces away from me. She took her first steps a week ago, and I’ve got to say that the excitement was very quickly muddied by sadness. I felt my baaaabbby, my first born, my precious tiny being, slipping away into the annals of long, long ago. Long ago that will only become even longer ago, until it’s all fuzzy and I’m waiting by the phone for Emerson to call and catch me up on her life. 

It’s also occurred to me that nothing can ever erase the slight sting of my baby not being a baby anymore. I’ve always heard that somewhere around 18-months mamas begin aching to have another child. But, that’s a new child, a new baby. And while I can enjoy a new baby’s infancy, it won’t be Emerson’s. That time is gone forever, encased in gold and magic with all the things that I hold most sacred to my heart.





But, we’ve moved onto a new phase of Emerson. This new phase will involve teeth that can chew birthday cakes and bubble gum, hair that can be braided and adorned with flowers, legs that can run into salty oceans or dance on the hot pavement in a rainstorm, a voice that speaks of dreams and love. I have been consumed with nurturing my babe thus far, but now I get to watch her emerge. I get to discover her as she discovers herself.


Right now, Emerson is also discovering how things work. Or, more aptly put, how she can make things work. Her favorite pastime is giving our radiators a tune-up, which mostly involves her banging on them with blocks and turning the dials all the way up to five. This has led to my new pastime, which is compulsively checking the heat settings on all the radiators, because while Emerson enjoys the heat at a nice toasty five, her parents can afford about a two. Emerson is adamant that those radiators belong at five, though. As soon as I turn the dial down, she crawls right over, appalled that I have been touching her radiator, and she readjusts it. It’s seriously an ongoing battle.


I have lamented Emerson’s intense “curiosity” and how much she’s grown. I’ve also mentioned that Emerson now loves to dance. Here’s a quick clip of her dancing (it’s so impossible to capture her doing anything, because she freezes when she sees the camera and/or crawls over and tries to grab it. Sigh):



My serious little bambino…






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this is our life: a trip to the bathroom

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Emerson is getting pretty tough to corral these days. Little by little we’ve baby-proofed or removed (many) items from every room of our house. But, our efforts always end up feeling like a failed attempt to make things safer for Emerson while minimizing the exhausting, frustrating, perpetual battle of keeping things away from her mitts o’ destruction. That girl still finds a way to hurt herself, and destroy or damage several items a day.

This is best illustrated by taking a snapshot—one room, fifteen minutes. So, here we go…  

It’s mid-morning, the dreaded time of day when I have to would like to attend to some of my needs for just fifteen minutes. I’ve been holding my pee (and possibly other things, as well) for hours. My breath is rank with tea and decaying bacteria, and far too many hours without brushing. I need to wash up. I’d like to run a comb through my unwashed hair. Meanwhile, this is the time of day when Emerson is raring to go. She wants nothing to do with being restrained or stuck in the smallest room of the house, which is part of why I’ve waited so long to attempt this. Fifty percent of the time, I’m lucky to get Emerson buckled into her bouncy seat while I do my thing. But, this is not one of those times. 

My only option is to let the creature roam free while I try to attend to my declining personal hygiene. 

I start to brush my teeth, and Emerson finds the garbage can, which is lined with an enticing plastic bag. She grabs a fistful of bag and immediately lights up when she hears the sweet crinkle of plastic in her hands, one of her most beloved of illicit substances. She stuffs it in her mouth, while I try to pry it out of the insane grip she’s got on it with those four sharp teeth of hers. But, as soon as I get her to release her jaw using the technique I learned when I took my dog to obedience school as a child, she discovers the huge pile of pretty awesome items inside the garbage can that us adults were silly enough to deem unusable. She’s pulling things out, one after the other, faster than I can retrieve them from her mouth. Oh my god, that q-tip in her mouth has so much ear wax on it!! Really, the tissue I just blew my nose into?! Come on, not the dirty diaper, puhleeeeeaaase! F*&%#K@, that one touched Alex’s ass! How am I going to kiss that mouth of yours ever again, little girl?!! 

Meanwhile, I was trying to hold my electric toothbrush (still on) clenched between my teeth while attending to the disaster before me, but it buzzed itself right out of my mouth splattering toothpaste all over my face and Emerson’s head.

The garbage can now lives in the bathroom closet.

While I try to clean up the toothpaste explosion, Emerson discovers her next obsession. The removal of the garbage can revealed the hole in the floor that the garbage can was previously hiding. This hole was the displeasing side effect of removing our ancient radiators when we installed a new heating system. It also happens to be the right size to get a small hand stuck, and possibly cut with questionable metal and jagged sub-flooring from the 1940’s. I really need to use the toilet, which is going to make it more difficult to head off Emerson’s next move, which I’m fairly certain will be that hole. So, I grab Emerson, run to the office, dig around until I find some packing tape, then head back to the bathroom and cover the hole with a few layers of said tape. Ahhhh. Better. 

I attack the mess on my head that used to resemble hair with a brush, while Emerson gets down on her belly and proceeds to lick the tape on the floor while intermittently smacking it. She’s absolutely tickled by this. Lick, smack, lick, smack. This goes on for a few minutes. Then she gets bored and heads over to the sink where I’m doing my hair. She pushes her way between my legs and tries to open the cabinet underneath the sink (I’m assuming so she can consume all of its contents). She immediately finds nine million items housed in or made of plastic so I throw a hair band around the knobs on the cabinet doors to keep her out (I keep putting off the 45 minute drive to Babies R’ Us to purchase a baby lock for the one and only cabinet in our house). Emerson quickly voices her opinion on my makeshift lock, holding on to the knobs while violently pulling the doors back and forth, like an inmate loudly protesting her imprisonment. This inevitably leads to one of her fingers getting crushed in the crack of the door.

Shhhhh. Shhhhh. You’re okay, baby. I know it hurt. Awwww. Shhhh.


Back on the floor.

I finish up at the sink while Emerson discovers the toilet paper. I was hoping I’d somehow bypass the toilet paper craze with my child, but that was just silly thinking on my part. Emerson sits down and begins to unroll the entire jumbo 3-ply roll while simultaneously stuffing it in her mouth. She has a genuine taste for paper-related materials, so I’m not altogether surprised by this. But, I’m a little puzzled when she starts to shove the toilet paper into her mouth with greater intensity than usual. She has a look of guilt on her face that seems to be saying I-must-have-this-or-I’ll-die-oh-please-don’t-let-mama-find-meeee! I try to teach Emerson that eating toilet paper is icky….it’s a losing battle. I once more use the dog-jaw technique and relegate the toilet paper roll to the back of the toilet tank. Awesome. One more thing that takes this place one step closer to resembling a frat house rather than a family home. Of course, this strategy will only work until Emerson grows another inch and can reach the top of the tank. Then what? Suspend the TP from the ceiling on a dangling hook? Actually….that isn’t a bad idea. I’ve got to check Pinterest for something like this.

Okay, I’ve got to use the bathroom or I’m going to need a diaper. Things look pretty secure. What else is there? I sit down very tentatively. Emerson is sitting on the floor chewing on actual teething toys. Clean ones. Oh, wait. She chucks them at the wall and stares at them with disgust. She moves on to the bathtub. First she finds a couple of dirty, wet wash cloths to suck on….the ones I used yesterday to scrub her bum. After tossing them in the tub and not being able to retrieve them, she attempts to eat the shower liner. She quickly tires of this, though, and I think thank goodness, that’s literally everything she could possibly attack in this room. But, she’s bored now that she’s attacked everything in the room. What is left to entertain her? Mama, of course. 

Emerson crawls over and lurks beneath my feet while I’m sitting on the toilet. What the hell is she going to do?! She caresses the now empty toilet paper holder, looking at me scornfully. She then shimmies her way into the small crevice between the wall and the toilet and proceeds to smack the toilet seat. She then attempts to stick her hands in the bowl while my ass is mere millimeters away from her face. I scream. This cannot happen. This is not okay. Emersonnnnn!!! I pull her out and put her back on the ground beneath me. 

I guess I better wrap this up, ready or not. Emerson decides to pull herself up by holding onto the drawstring of my pants while I do some sort of crazy back bend in an attempt to stabilize her and grab the toilet paper off the back of the the toilet tank simultaneously. I hurriedly try to get some TP off the roll before it is ripped from my hands and ingested. I pull my pants up.

This is our life.

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the gradual letting go

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By the time your child is six, you will have reached what one psychologist we talked to calls “planned detachment.” Your child will check in for breakfast, be out the door, check in for lunch, and be gone again. You’ll say “You’re looking well, dear,” you’ll write a note to remind him of chores, and finally at dinner you’ll get to talk some. After dinner some card playing, singing, or other family-oriented activity reconnects you with the individual who used to stick to you like Velcro.

~Originally posted on askdrsears.com

On this Monday, I find myself with a different child than the one I had at the close of last week. The child I have today fluidly moves throughout the house on her own (after some major babyproofing). She has no fear. She is curious and a quick learner. She has a loud voice, and babbles as much as we speak. She is taller, and stronger, with an enormous appetite. She can crawl up an entire flight of stairs without our help (but one of us right behind her, of course).

Emerson has been obsessed with standing for the past four months. But, now she’s obsessed with standing on her own, not holding on to anything (this feels like a metaphor). And, like most of her previous developments, that makes this mama proud, but a little sad. Because how can my baby be standing on her own already?! Sure, she only does it for 5-7 seconds, but she is my baby. She is so close to walking that I can already hear her footsteps walking away from me…maybe that’s because I can hear her sassy hands smacking the floor as she crawls through the house like a maniac.

This new arrangement—me in one room, Emerson exploring the surrounding rooms without me—makes me anxious. But, it’s happening and I’m letting it. I am so proud of the courage and confidence my child exudes, and I want her to feel free to be who she is from the beginning. There is nothing more thrilling than watching my girl grow into the person she was put on this earth to be. But, damn. I’ve never met a person harder to let go of.
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pressure

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I’ve always put a lot of pressure on myself, so I knew that I’d have to try to be extra gentle with myself when I became a mother. Scratch that. When I got pregnant. Wait, no. From the moment I began to think seriously about trying to conceive. I’ve had incredibly unrealistic expectations of myself all along. I’d like to be able to go easy on myself, but right now that ability comes and goes. 


Instead, I’ve basically restricted my life down to only things that make healthy and emotionally stable babies, and it’s been that way for the two years (trying to conceive, pregnancy, and mothering). I cut out all caffeine, alcohol, and anything and everything I could ingest with any known risk of harm to fetuses/nursing babes starting months before I even began trying to conceive. The last time I was drunk was on my honeymoon. I exercised (but not too strenuously) religiously to get my body ready for pregnancy. While pregnant, I took organic prenatal vitamins, omegas, calcium, superfood supplements, and probiotics. I ate all organic foods, and an excess of produce. I got plenty of sleep and rested my body. I held my breath when walking past smokers, vehicles emitting smelly fumes, people painting their houses or using permanent markers. I played relaxation music constantly (to calm myself and the baby). I could go on. The point is, I was am nuts. Crazy. When it comes to the level of perfection I believe I should be able to provide for my child, it just never feels like it’s enough….like, I am enough.

Now that my child is on the outside of my body, it’s only gotten worse…with the exception of the early months, which were honestly much easier for me than my current life. Up until about six months, when Emerson became mobile and independent, I felt more at ease in the world than I think I ever have. I was doing my thing, mothering and nurturing, and it didn’t feel as difficult to provide my child with everything she needed because I was it. My arms always kept her safe and soothed, my breast milk provided all the healthy nutrition she needed, she took so many naps throughout the day that it was easy to fill her awake hours with plenty of enrichment and interaction. That was the honeymoon. 

Now it’s a full-time job trying to keep my child from injuring herself. My arms are a place she returns to periodically while spending her time exploring/getting excited about/getting pissed off by/destroying/building a life. Emerson also now requires food, of the outside-of-my-body variety. Trying to piece together her weekly meal plan is an insane word problem, the likes of which I haven’t seen since studying for and taking the LSATs. I panic as I try to balance the foods that constipate her with the foods that make her poop, foods that provide enough iron for her growing body, foods that provide enough vitamin C to help her absorb said iron, foods with protein….all while working with the small set of foods she can actually eat at this point in her life. Then there’s the fact that Emerson is now awake. Like, all day. And after I prepare meals, clean up meals, give baths, dress, change (repeat, repeat, repeat), do the laundry, clean up spills and messes, soothe a child who has bonked her head/fallen down/gotten stuck somewhere she can’t get out of (repeat, repeat, repeat), there are only so many hours minutes left to enrich her. 


Meanwhile, I feel perpetually assaulted by countless INCREDIBLY IMPORTANT/CRITICAL/READ THIS OR YOUR CHILD MIGHT DIE/HAVE A LOW IQ/SUFFER FROM MALNUTRITION/BECOME A DELINQUENT AND NEVER HOLD A JOB, etc etc. All in caps. Underlined. Italicized. Starred. Circled. Every day, I personally seek information on any number of child-rearing issues, and also happen upon a dozen other unsolicited ones (thank you, Facebook/email subscriptions/blogs). I read, I sometimes take careful notes, I try to commit it all to memory and put it into effect. But, I am overwhelmed. I am panicked. I feel like less of a mother for not being able to stay on top of it all. So, I try to relax and not think about any of it, but then I end up feeling neglectful. Because how can I not care about my child’s life/brain/health/future?! Have you read about the toxic levels of arsenic in rice and rice products?! Did you see that study Harvard did that links fluoride to brain damage, significantly lower IQs, suppressed immune systems, cancer…..?! Have you heard about the incredibly hazardous effects of the vinyl used to make kid’s backpacks and lunch boxes that only needs to be near them for minutes in order to leach into their bodies?!

Pause.


But, then. Then there are the moments when another mama comes to me and I see a bit of myself in her, and I can talk to that part of my heart/mind/psyche that needs to hear me say, “you are wonderful just the way you are. Please go easy on yourself.” And I feel better, proud even, of my efforts. As my husband used to say when I’d worry aloud to him that I wasn’t doing a good enough job at being pregnant, “that baby has the Ritz Carleton of wombs, relax.” And realistically, she probably has the Ritz Carleton of childhoods. I might not be able to see it, but it’s there. I’m there, and she’s there. And I love her so much that I drive myself crazy researching every facet of life I can think of and striving for some ideal that isn’t anywhere near possible to achieve. 

In the end, all I can do is my very best, and that is the one thing I can always say I do. That is the one thing we all do, every day, parent or not—our best. If we could do better in any given moment, we would. So, just for today, I’ll let that be enough.

This totally plays in my head all the time…

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nipples

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I wish my daughter loved them a little less. Don’t get me wrong, I totally enjoy our nursing bond and will continue to nurse her for as long as she likes. I don’t really mind waking up in the middle of the night to feed her, even after eight months of doing so. I think it’s sweet that she likes to caress or hold onto the opposite breast as she nurses. I’m mostly amused by her drive-by sucking—grabbing my shirt open and taking a few sips in the middle of playing, then continuing on her way. I can handle the fact that she has transformed my boobs from an erogenous zone to a 24-hour diner (although, my husband feels slightly different about this one).

But, for the love of all things motherly, WHY must she use her new-found ability to grab things pincer-style to twist my nipples back and forth like she’s trying to find the right radio station?! And, WHEN will she stop biting me?! Sometimes, she even flicks my nipple back and forth between her fingers like she’s trying to get a handle on a fire hose that’s out of control. And she aims it up at my face and sprays me in the eye. While I’m trying to sleep. Seriously, I cannot find a way to stop girlfriend from manhandling me all. night. long. The minute it’s dark in the room, the pinching fingers come out. And the minute the lights are on, she bites me and then laughs. Laughs in my face.

When will nursing return to being sweet instead of semi-tortuous? Right now, I tense up with anxiety as I bring her to my breast, not knowing what she’s going to inflict upon me. I am flashing back to those first few weeks when my nipples were cracked and bleeding and I was miserable (when it came to breastfeeding). I got through that, and I will get through this, but fuck.

That is all.

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