Two Years.
Two years ago tonight, large, fluffy snowflakes were falling silently on grass that was still vibrantly green. I was experiencing waves of pain unlike anything I have ever felt before, and have only felt once more since. I had no idea what to expect, or what life would be in the next two years, I only knew things were about to change forever.
In two years, I have learned more from you than any number of years spent in school. No amount of money could buy anyone this type of education. Life, as a young adult without children, is quite static in general. Small variations here and there, but in two years of my twenties, little changed. Different relationships, different friends, a different job. Even leaving college to start my next chapter seemed less significant than it should have been, even at the time. Two years is nothing in the lifetime of mine until you were born. Now, I truly understand the significance of two years.
In two years, I have watched you grow from a helpless, albeit, large and quite loud infant, who incessantly screamed her demands in an untranslatable language to her tired parents who felt helpless and useless. No amount of baby books, classes, reading or even advice from be-there-done-that persons could have ever prepared us for you. We spent many of those first nights clinging to fleeting moments of silence and sleep and wondering when it would all change. We counted the days until we could regain normalcy...and now I long for a moment back in those sleepless months to look at you again, memorize your face, your smell, your laugh. I have many pictures, thousands really, and even hours of home video capturing your first steps, words, giggles and smiles. But I still long for the nights of moments I would have never thought to record.
In two years, you have become a little person, physically, but your personality is as big as it will ever be. Your sweet demands make me smile, and I stare at you wondering when you became so smart, so descriptive, so communicative. I think back over the past few months, how much you have changed since the winter, since your sister was born, since yesterday. I feel so proud for you, so proud of you.
But it also makes me realize how unchanged I am. You understand most of a language you have taught yourself by observation in less than 2 years. I could never do that in my adult life, ever. I still only remember the bad words from four years of Spanish class. But you, you know what to say, you understand even more. And my mind is powerless to learn in comparison to yours. I often hear of the young mind described as a sponge, which sounds metaphorical, until you see the literal version. It is enough to blow my non-absorbent mind.
I am most amazed by you as a sister. I watched you so closely today, your long blond hair blowing in wisps as you sailed back and forth on your swing. When did your hair get so long? You have amazed me most with your incredible growth since you sister was born. There was no transition for you, you took to her as though she had always been there, and though I know you may never remember life without your sister, it was there. The day she was born you instantly lost any interest in my once swollen belly, I know you knew that your sister was here in the flesh and my womb no longer carried any more importance. You loved her from day one, and I have never seen siblings act as you do together.
I am fascinated by you. The way you are selfless, as a two-year-old, where selflessness does not typically exist. But then there is you. A two-year-old who is concerned about where her sister is, when she needs to eat, be bathed and cared for. A two-year-old who sacrificed her time on a swing today so she could push her little sister gently in her swing and extract bubbly giggles. I know I loved you even before you were born, but watching you take care of your baby sister, watching you love her with this selfless unconditional, pure emotion, makes me feel so incredibly inadequate. Because I could never communicate through any medium the feelings I have for you today. Its not just love, not even close. It is not a word I have ever known. I am sure one doesn't exist.
All I can do is tell you I love you over and over, hoping words have some exponential value that add up over time and if I can just say it an infinite amount of times you will someday understand. But you won't, I know, until your first baby is two years old, and you try to explain to her how you feel.
And all I can do for now, is look forward to your tomorrows, and try to slow down time, lock in these memories and hope I am everything you need me to be, because you are everything thats gives my life meaning.
Happy birthday, my baby girl...
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Thursday, September 1, 2011
30
I am 30 today.
I have all the grandparents I have ever known. They are still alive and well, and I talk to them often. It took me nearly 30 years to really appreciate their insights. To admire their amazing commitment to their lives and each other. I love to hear their stories of the old days, how they struggled for food, made 30 cents a day, worked a week for a days worth of food, lost their lovers to war, and suffered from diseases that have long been eradicated.
I am 30 today, and I am humbled.
I have best friends in the form of sisters who can always make me laugh, and who are always around to talk and whom I share so many wonderful childhood moments. I have parents who understand me, love me unconditionally. Who have guided me through the best and hardest parts of my life. Offered sound advice for every challenge and who made me feel I would never be unloved, or against the world on my own. Parents who make me want to be a better mother, who have taught me about real love before I knew anything of it. Parents who light up when they see my children, and children who can't contain their happiness when they see their grandparents.
I am 30 today, and a mother, and still my parents' child.
I have transitioned from a completely dependent infant, to a carefree child, to my teenage years where even admitting to having parents was embarrassing. Weren't we so cool that we simply generated from our own awesomeness? Did I not try, behind closed doors, to explain to my parents how uncool they were, and their very existence was eroding my own coolness. I think my eyes rolled into my head for 4 years straight, no wonder my vision sucks. Determined never to be like them....though sometimes they were right.....OK, a lot of times they seem to be right......I need to talk to my parents before I make this decision, they will know what to do....
They don't embarrass me now, not even a little. Not even when my father introduces me by my name, profession, the number of children I have, their ages, how high they can count, something cute they just did/said, and (if he hasn't yet been cut off with a faux phone call) my sisters' names, professions, Alma Maters and children (even in their absence), often to complete strangers.
I am 30 today, and I am still so cool, but my parents are even cooler.
I have experienced pregnancy, a life being formed within me. I have grown that life, nurtured that life, dreamed of these lives, and birthed them. I have birthed a baby in a hospital, surrounded by doctors, nurses, and family. I have birthed a daughter in my car alone, with nothing but the voice of my husband and a thick fog to guide me. I have two daughters whose beauty overwhelms me, whose intelligence astounds me, and whose love envelopes me.
I am 30 today, and I am surrounded by love.
I have the house I want, in the town I want, bought and paid for with a job I love. A job which shows me the very worse parts of life, and allows me to experience the best. A job that fulfills me in a deep way, but makes me look forward everyday to holding my family at the end of every day and reminding me to be very grateful for all that I have. A job which allows me to spend most of my time at home with my family, a husband who would do anything for our daughters, which is all I ever wanted. Two girls, who can stop me in my tracks, even on my busiest day, to just stare at them. I am addicted to their faces, the sound of their voices, the smell of their hair, and their sleepy eyes in the morning, goofy smiles, and eyes that dance with happiness at things that instill chills of disgust in my over stimulated adult mind, spider webs, zig-zagging earwigs, slimy worms. Gross critters that turn my stomach, can make my kids giggle. They are fearless, wanting to touch, hold, and even taste. I am full of fear, thinking of all the diseases they could catch, all the holes that could be invaded, all the night hours I am not watching that my children, my husband, myself, could be covered in disgusting, segmented bodies. But my babies, they see none of the bad. They only see fun bugs. When did I lose that? Well before 30, I am sure. But now, I have my own silly bugs, and I too watch them for hours, giggling at their silliness and wanting nothing more than to pick them up and touch them, smell them, kiss them and wait for the next amazing thing this life has to offer. I have a feeling, it won't be long.
I am 30 today, and I am fulfilled.
I am so very happy.
I have all the grandparents I have ever known. They are still alive and well, and I talk to them often. It took me nearly 30 years to really appreciate their insights. To admire their amazing commitment to their lives and each other. I love to hear their stories of the old days, how they struggled for food, made 30 cents a day, worked a week for a days worth of food, lost their lovers to war, and suffered from diseases that have long been eradicated.
I am 30 today, and I am humbled.
I have best friends in the form of sisters who can always make me laugh, and who are always around to talk and whom I share so many wonderful childhood moments. I have parents who understand me, love me unconditionally. Who have guided me through the best and hardest parts of my life. Offered sound advice for every challenge and who made me feel I would never be unloved, or against the world on my own. Parents who make me want to be a better mother, who have taught me about real love before I knew anything of it. Parents who light up when they see my children, and children who can't contain their happiness when they see their grandparents.
I am 30 today, and a mother, and still my parents' child.
I have transitioned from a completely dependent infant, to a carefree child, to my teenage years where even admitting to having parents was embarrassing. Weren't we so cool that we simply generated from our own awesomeness? Did I not try, behind closed doors, to explain to my parents how uncool they were, and their very existence was eroding my own coolness. I think my eyes rolled into my head for 4 years straight, no wonder my vision sucks. Determined never to be like them....though sometimes they were right.....OK, a lot of times they seem to be right......I need to talk to my parents before I make this decision, they will know what to do....
They don't embarrass me now, not even a little. Not even when my father introduces me by my name, profession, the number of children I have, their ages, how high they can count, something cute they just did/said, and (if he hasn't yet been cut off with a faux phone call) my sisters' names, professions, Alma Maters and children (even in their absence), often to complete strangers.
I am 30 today, and I am still so cool, but my parents are even cooler.
I have experienced pregnancy, a life being formed within me. I have grown that life, nurtured that life, dreamed of these lives, and birthed them. I have birthed a baby in a hospital, surrounded by doctors, nurses, and family. I have birthed a daughter in my car alone, with nothing but the voice of my husband and a thick fog to guide me. I have two daughters whose beauty overwhelms me, whose intelligence astounds me, and whose love envelopes me.
I am 30 today, and I am surrounded by love.
I have the house I want, in the town I want, bought and paid for with a job I love. A job which shows me the very worse parts of life, and allows me to experience the best. A job that fulfills me in a deep way, but makes me look forward everyday to holding my family at the end of every day and reminding me to be very grateful for all that I have. A job which allows me to spend most of my time at home with my family, a husband who would do anything for our daughters, which is all I ever wanted. Two girls, who can stop me in my tracks, even on my busiest day, to just stare at them. I am addicted to their faces, the sound of their voices, the smell of their hair, and their sleepy eyes in the morning, goofy smiles, and eyes that dance with happiness at things that instill chills of disgust in my over stimulated adult mind, spider webs, zig-zagging earwigs, slimy worms. Gross critters that turn my stomach, can make my kids giggle. They are fearless, wanting to touch, hold, and even taste. I am full of fear, thinking of all the diseases they could catch, all the holes that could be invaded, all the night hours I am not watching that my children, my husband, myself, could be covered in disgusting, segmented bodies. But my babies, they see none of the bad. They only see fun bugs. When did I lose that? Well before 30, I am sure. But now, I have my own silly bugs, and I too watch them for hours, giggling at their silliness and wanting nothing more than to pick them up and touch them, smell them, kiss them and wait for the next amazing thing this life has to offer. I have a feeling, it won't be long.
I am 30 today, and I am fulfilled.
I am so very happy.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Blind
I am not, nor have I ever been a religious person. I do believe in some semblance of order in this life. There is too much symmetry, too many infinite patterns, too much perfection, for me to believe any differently.
I cringe at phrases such as " all things happen for a reason", in part because I feel it is a copout, in part because I believe it is true, and in part, because I know it isn't, but desperately want it to be, need it to be.
What good can possibly come from anyone with cancer, a child who never makes it through childhood, or is robbed of it,made to grow older than possible in a short life. Or one who is fated never to make it even to birth. How can we hide behind a mysterious "reason" for any of that? How can we justify the worst things that can happen with an assumption that there is some entity, some power choosing this? Some order we know nothing of but must accept as fate? Is there a lesson in all things tragic? Are we supposed to find a glimmer of hope and happiness in all things that devastate us?
Maybe we are. Perhaps it is our responsibility, to our own selves, to find that reason in every instance of sadness. To create a place where we are safe, even if we can not see, or feel it. That reason, behind all things, being something we create ourselves. Is this what I am to teach my children, to find the good in all bad, the wonder in all things sad, the beauty, in all things that make us cringe with discomfort, and to use their own minds to create happiness, and contentment?
I don't know. I haven't a clue, except, perhaps..., well, yes, I think it just may be.
I cringe at phrases such as " all things happen for a reason", in part because I feel it is a copout, in part because I believe it is true, and in part, because I know it isn't, but desperately want it to be, need it to be.
What good can possibly come from anyone with cancer, a child who never makes it through childhood, or is robbed of it,made to grow older than possible in a short life. Or one who is fated never to make it even to birth. How can we hide behind a mysterious "reason" for any of that? How can we justify the worst things that can happen with an assumption that there is some entity, some power choosing this? Some order we know nothing of but must accept as fate? Is there a lesson in all things tragic? Are we supposed to find a glimmer of hope and happiness in all things that devastate us?
Maybe we are. Perhaps it is our responsibility, to our own selves, to find that reason in every instance of sadness. To create a place where we are safe, even if we can not see, or feel it. That reason, behind all things, being something we create ourselves. Is this what I am to teach my children, to find the good in all bad, the wonder in all things sad, the beauty, in all things that make us cringe with discomfort, and to use their own minds to create happiness, and contentment?
I don't know. I haven't a clue, except, perhaps..., well, yes, I think it just may be.
Monday, August 15, 2011
Blind Hope
My children amaze me, everyday. I never thought I wanted my babies to be this close in age, never planned on this, but life changed my mind.
It really is literally indescribable, how much I love my babies, but I will try to do so, after all, this whole blog thing is for my babies. So that they might know one day, maybe when I am gone, how very much they filled my life with love, happiness, and a desire to give up everything I ever thought I wanted in life, to watch them enjoy theirs.
I never understood. I couldn't. How a mother could become hypnotized by a toddler's babbling lips, the blue crescendo of a newborn's eyes, the glow of satiny skin that disappears into deep crevices of soft flesh, only to mound up again into hill after hill of chubbiness. The effortless beauty and innocence of a child. Absolute perfection, so far from what I have become, so much potential in this little life.
I long to replicate the feeling of the all consuming embrace of warmth I felt the first time Jada's sweet, chubby face curled into a smile so big her eyes disappeared beneath folds of soft, smooth brown flesh and her little noise wrinkled up into her downy forehead. Her black-brown hair refused to stop at her forehead, and grows sparingly, but steadily down her face, combining into her eyebrows and connecting her temples. The small swirl atop her brow, a genetic gift from her auntie. The way I have to slide my hand up to the knuckles under her chin to reach her neck..another signature of my Italian family. My husband's genetic contribution, a completely contented personality, and one very distinct eyebrow that rises slightly only to give way to a concave curve, rise up to the summit of the brow and crash down again. Only hers is on the opposite side of her father's, so they match up as they face each other. Incredible.
The way my children came from the same two people, and can be so completely different. Di has translucent skin, so light I can trace the paths of her veins from head to toe. The one trait from my bloodline, a quirky pinky toenail that grows straight up from the tip of her toe, just as my mother's does. That nail is impossible to paint. She is going to hate that nail when she's older...I will always love it. Her wispy blond hair, so fine and feathery that no clip or ponytail holder can manage to contain it for more than a minute. Her hair rejects all accessories and styling efforts, curling and twisting in different directions and ways throughout the day. I don't have the heart to cut it, even a little bit. I want to let it be free and wild and natural, as she is. Her blue eyes actually taper to brown at the border of the pupil, spiral out in flecks of yellow and green to the sapphire border of her iris. The whites of her eyes are blue tinged as well, and the corners turn down, which certainly works to her advantage when asking her parents for a treat.
J's eyes are blue as well, but distinctly different. The blue is lighter in the center, without a trace of any other color, and light, early morning sky blue which ascends and descends simultaneously around her inquisitive pupils to a thick, deep sapphire ring. That ring holds her big eyes in place beneath her slanted, almond lids. I get lost in her eyes. The way she stares at me, and returns my admiring gaze with a huge, toothless grin. She even stops suckling on me for a moment or two just to let me know she sees my face, she smiles at me and I know, despite the fact that it will be many months before she and I can converse in a traditional sense, these moments are our very first mother daughter "talks".
Pretty basic. Me: "I love you baby, you make my world everything I could ever want, and I can't believe you are my baby"
Her: "I like boob".
They astound me. Every moment of my day. How much I can love, how happy I can feel, how little you really need to make life worth living. How they can fulfill my life to absolute completeness and contentment. How they could replace any other dreams and aspirations I ever had, because they are more than enough to satisfy any aspect of my life. I could give up eating and be nourished with their smiles and laughter. (Well...for a few minutes, anyway). I could give up television and internet and be perpetually entertained by their antics, they way they eat food, read books and interact with each other. Of course, my children sleep, and I do not find my husband eating quite as intriguing, so I utilize the DVR nightly.
"Love" doesn't seem strong enough. I can't replicate with a word the warmth, the joy that effervesces from every part of my body when my baby laughs with me, or my big girl asks to hold her sister, or kisses her when she thinks I am not looking. When her baby sister cries and the look on her face is pure concern as she rushes to her sister's aide, not a hint of annoyance or irritation. Just love. "Amazed" doesn't ignite nearly the same feeling I get as I stare at them, asking myself and them, "you do that? when did you learn to do that? Are you really mine?" Even photographs, they do not do my babies justice. A moment, captured, still forever and even that, it can't give me the same feelings I get when I hold them, smell them, feel their skin on mine, their hair in my nose. I need to memorize them, they way they smile so purely, from only joy, not obligation. They way they smell of natural sweetness, like a breeze on a summer night, not of perfumes or colognes. They way they are so breath-takingly beautiful, without a touch of makeup, hair dye or skin product. They way they are perfect people, who use their bodies for what they are designed for and don't question any of it. The way they live recklessly and love unconditionally.
My children have so very much to teach me.
It really is literally indescribable, how much I love my babies, but I will try to do so, after all, this whole blog thing is for my babies. So that they might know one day, maybe when I am gone, how very much they filled my life with love, happiness, and a desire to give up everything I ever thought I wanted in life, to watch them enjoy theirs.
I never understood. I couldn't. How a mother could become hypnotized by a toddler's babbling lips, the blue crescendo of a newborn's eyes, the glow of satiny skin that disappears into deep crevices of soft flesh, only to mound up again into hill after hill of chubbiness. The effortless beauty and innocence of a child. Absolute perfection, so far from what I have become, so much potential in this little life.
I long to replicate the feeling of the all consuming embrace of warmth I felt the first time Jada's sweet, chubby face curled into a smile so big her eyes disappeared beneath folds of soft, smooth brown flesh and her little noise wrinkled up into her downy forehead. Her black-brown hair refused to stop at her forehead, and grows sparingly, but steadily down her face, combining into her eyebrows and connecting her temples. The small swirl atop her brow, a genetic gift from her auntie. The way I have to slide my hand up to the knuckles under her chin to reach her neck..another signature of my Italian family. My husband's genetic contribution, a completely contented personality, and one very distinct eyebrow that rises slightly only to give way to a concave curve, rise up to the summit of the brow and crash down again. Only hers is on the opposite side of her father's, so they match up as they face each other. Incredible.
The way my children came from the same two people, and can be so completely different. Di has translucent skin, so light I can trace the paths of her veins from head to toe. The one trait from my bloodline, a quirky pinky toenail that grows straight up from the tip of her toe, just as my mother's does. That nail is impossible to paint. She is going to hate that nail when she's older...I will always love it. Her wispy blond hair, so fine and feathery that no clip or ponytail holder can manage to contain it for more than a minute. Her hair rejects all accessories and styling efforts, curling and twisting in different directions and ways throughout the day. I don't have the heart to cut it, even a little bit. I want to let it be free and wild and natural, as she is. Her blue eyes actually taper to brown at the border of the pupil, spiral out in flecks of yellow and green to the sapphire border of her iris. The whites of her eyes are blue tinged as well, and the corners turn down, which certainly works to her advantage when asking her parents for a treat.
J's eyes are blue as well, but distinctly different. The blue is lighter in the center, without a trace of any other color, and light, early morning sky blue which ascends and descends simultaneously around her inquisitive pupils to a thick, deep sapphire ring. That ring holds her big eyes in place beneath her slanted, almond lids. I get lost in her eyes. The way she stares at me, and returns my admiring gaze with a huge, toothless grin. She even stops suckling on me for a moment or two just to let me know she sees my face, she smiles at me and I know, despite the fact that it will be many months before she and I can converse in a traditional sense, these moments are our very first mother daughter "talks".
Pretty basic. Me: "I love you baby, you make my world everything I could ever want, and I can't believe you are my baby"
Her: "I like boob".
They astound me. Every moment of my day. How much I can love, how happy I can feel, how little you really need to make life worth living. How they can fulfill my life to absolute completeness and contentment. How they could replace any other dreams and aspirations I ever had, because they are more than enough to satisfy any aspect of my life. I could give up eating and be nourished with their smiles and laughter. (Well...for a few minutes, anyway). I could give up television and internet and be perpetually entertained by their antics, they way they eat food, read books and interact with each other. Of course, my children sleep, and I do not find my husband eating quite as intriguing, so I utilize the DVR nightly.
"Love" doesn't seem strong enough. I can't replicate with a word the warmth, the joy that effervesces from every part of my body when my baby laughs with me, or my big girl asks to hold her sister, or kisses her when she thinks I am not looking. When her baby sister cries and the look on her face is pure concern as she rushes to her sister's aide, not a hint of annoyance or irritation. Just love. "Amazed" doesn't ignite nearly the same feeling I get as I stare at them, asking myself and them, "you do that? when did you learn to do that? Are you really mine?" Even photographs, they do not do my babies justice. A moment, captured, still forever and even that, it can't give me the same feelings I get when I hold them, smell them, feel their skin on mine, their hair in my nose. I need to memorize them, they way they smile so purely, from only joy, not obligation. They way they smell of natural sweetness, like a breeze on a summer night, not of perfumes or colognes. They way they are so breath-takingly beautiful, without a touch of makeup, hair dye or skin product. They way they are perfect people, who use their bodies for what they are designed for and don't question any of it. The way they live recklessly and love unconditionally.
My children have so very much to teach me.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
One Year
One year. Yesterday was one year from the day I found out about my mother's cancer. One year, from the day my world as I knew it, crumbled before me and my mind raced as I scrambled to cling to the pieces. Denial, a wonderful defense mechanism, which at first feels good. To have a belief in waking from a nightmare is possible, though denial only truly disguises another gut wrenching, heart dropping reality. One year.
In one year, my mother had discovered her cancer, had surgery, chemotherapy. Her hair has fallen out and grown back, erasing the scar. With the growth of hair, comes the growth of new hope. All the useless, and now potentially deadly organs that once housed myself and my sisters, created and gave life to, gone. Diseased and useless. The first time I ever had to see my mother sick, lying helpless in a hospital bed, too weak to move, wondering if this was the first of many nights I would spend there. Now, my mother calls me daily, breathless as she manages to hold an hour long conversation while exercising rather vigorously between her full time job and countless errands and phenomenal grandmothering. One year.
In one year, my Jada was dreamed of, conceived, carried in my womb, delivered in my car, and is now the amazing little smiling creature before me. One year. My baby girl, my first born, has transformed into a little girl, from a baby who could barely crawl, to a child I can barely run after, speaking in full sentences, caring for her new sister, painting pictures, signing and singing about a hundred songs I never knew she knew. Just one year.
One year. We made the move from Massachusetts to our dream life in Connecticut. Bought the house we loved in the town we adored. Painted the walls with my own two hands and started our life here, planted the roots of our young family, among the roots of the many trees that have been hear for decades, some maybe for a century. All this, in one year.
So many amazing moments, most that I will vividly remember all my life. From that terrifying night I realized my life would never be the same again, all security ripped away, to now understanding that same terror is liberating. Because now that you are here, cancer, we can fight you. It is the unseen enemy I fear most, and I see you, clearly. I do not fear you now. You have been revealed. And we have conquered you. All, in just one year.
In one year, my mother had discovered her cancer, had surgery, chemotherapy. Her hair has fallen out and grown back, erasing the scar. With the growth of hair, comes the growth of new hope. All the useless, and now potentially deadly organs that once housed myself and my sisters, created and gave life to, gone. Diseased and useless. The first time I ever had to see my mother sick, lying helpless in a hospital bed, too weak to move, wondering if this was the first of many nights I would spend there. Now, my mother calls me daily, breathless as she manages to hold an hour long conversation while exercising rather vigorously between her full time job and countless errands and phenomenal grandmothering. One year.
In one year, my Jada was dreamed of, conceived, carried in my womb, delivered in my car, and is now the amazing little smiling creature before me. One year. My baby girl, my first born, has transformed into a little girl, from a baby who could barely crawl, to a child I can barely run after, speaking in full sentences, caring for her new sister, painting pictures, signing and singing about a hundred songs I never knew she knew. Just one year.
One year. We made the move from Massachusetts to our dream life in Connecticut. Bought the house we loved in the town we adored. Painted the walls with my own two hands and started our life here, planted the roots of our young family, among the roots of the many trees that have been hear for decades, some maybe for a century. All this, in one year.
So many amazing moments, most that I will vividly remember all my life. From that terrifying night I realized my life would never be the same again, all security ripped away, to now understanding that same terror is liberating. Because now that you are here, cancer, we can fight you. It is the unseen enemy I fear most, and I see you, clearly. I do not fear you now. You have been revealed. And we have conquered you. All, in just one year.
Friday, July 22, 2011
Adventures in Breastfeeding
For my first daughter, I thought it was going to be so easy. How can anyone not breastfeed? It's there, it's free, it's natural. It all seemed so simple. I read books, stalked online forums and bought out the store with every product and accessory you can find for a breastfeeding mother. I was excited to do it.
When Di was born I couldn't be with her for several hours, they warned me it might be hard for her to latch. She did immediately. To this day, she eats anything and everything in site. I should have known when I first locked eyes with my beautiful first born baby girl and she instantly opened her mouth at the sight of me, that food would be a driving factor in her life.
Everyone says it shouldn't hurt. Everyone says it is the most natural thing. Both are true, but not in my case. I had mastitis, I know this now, but at the time it felt like the worst flu I ever had, combined with breast pain and red streaks on my body. It felt like knives slicing off my nipples with every latch. Chunks of skin were ripped from my breasts, hanging like shredded tissue paper. I bled, I cried, I screamed every session, I even caught myself squeezing my daughter as an involuntary reflex to the pain. I still remember the look on her face, confusion. She was just a newborn but she conveyed a message to me I already felt: I was failing.
I will be honest, I looked for every excuse to quit. I needed permission, someone to tell me to just stop. I wanted to hear that she was allergic to my milk, it would explain her horrible, constant colic and alleviate me of my pain and responsibility. I got permission from no one. I even felt a bit guilted into continuing by the online community...I am forever grateful for that.
I purchased a breastpump and OH! What sweet relief! I could pump bottles of milk without pain, my daughter ate to her heart's content, and my husband actually is one of the few men in this world who would wake up at night to feed her. I loved pumping for her. I became proud of it. We call ourselves EPers (exclusive pumper). Its a small group, and it can be tough to feel like you belong. Nursing mothers don't relate, neither do formula mothers. So I didn't tell many people. I proudly said I breastfed, but I didn't say how. I pumped for 10 and a half months, and thanks to an oversupply that could simultaneously feed all the Duggar children, I had enough frozen breastmilk to last well over a year. Good thing too, because now I was pregnant with my little J.
My second daughter wasn't quite as interested in breastfeeding immediately. Probably because the first thing she ever saw, smelled and felt in this world was the floor mat of my Honda CR-V. But after several hours of being apart, her naked body was placed on my naked body. She sniffed at her hands and sniffed at me, searching. The nurses told me not to interfere, to let her find my breast on her own. Incredibly, she did, but was too exhausted to do much nursing. So she used it as a pillow instead, and we slept a long while.
Less than a week after J was born, I had shaking chills, a high fever and pain in my abdomen, breasts and back. Turns out, after many tests, I had mastitis in my left breast, a kidney infection and retained placenta which caused a uterine infection. I was put on 2 oral antibiotics and scheduled for a D&C, during which I got a round of IV antibiotics. Luckily, my mother and grandmother were patient enough to feed J with a syringe as not to compromise our nursing relationship with nipple confusion, and even luckier, I had enough breastmilk pumped to sustain her as I had to pump and dump for 24 hours after.
I m sure I announced to everyone that would come within 6 feet of me that I was breastfeeding, so any procedure, medication or treatment had to be conducive to doing so. I refused any anxiety meds, so I was wide awake in the OR as they strapped me down to a table the width of a popsicle stick and about the same temperature as one. Cozy. I look around the room at the 2 dozen people who will soon have their heads between my legs. A comforting last thought as the light slips from my vision and I am falling into a heavy sleep.
A week later, I am feeling better. My nipples are still cracked and sore. My breast starts to hurt again, that familiar pain, shaking chills, high fevers and red streaks. Mastitis, again. Well crap, I had it before, and a lot of people seem to have it twice. I saw my OB the next day, back on antibiotics. 4 times a day, as if a breastfeeding mom of 2 kids under two has nothing better to do than remember to take pills 4 times a day when I dont remember to eat three times a day or brush my teeth twice a day. But I know I have to, so I set timers and reminders and I diligently, religiously take my pills at 6am, 12 noon, 6pm and midnight.
The pain gets worse, now its on my right breast as well. Back to the doctor, my fever is 102. My OB is dumbfounded, she tells me this. She asks other OBs, and midwives. No one knows what to do. I am already on the strongest, best medication for mastitis and it's getting worse. I have and ultrasound, luckily, no abscess and I am able to avoid another surgery. But now I dont have an answer either. Off to see a specialist of infectious disease. He is an older doctor, who of course recommended stopping breastfeeding immediately. There it is. The excuse I silently begged for the first time. The words I had longed to hear from someone, anyone last time I was in this position. But now, things are different. This time, there is not a chance. I tell him this is not possible, that I won't even consider stopping. He assures me it will cure my mastitis. I do agree with him, but again, reiterate my point. I won't quit, I don't even consider it.
He respects my choice, luckily, as the infection has drained me of energy to fight that battle. He recommends 10 days of IV antibiotics. I start that day in the hospital and have a follow up with a visiting nurse. The nurse who comes to see me is in her 70s and has just badly injured her knee. I have a long, rock driveway and a dozen steps, including several uneven stone steps outside. Because why not break a hip as well. I have to help her up my stairs and help her draw my blood and place a new line. When she is leaving she nearly tumbles down my stone steps and I have to hold her and walk her to her car...my poor nurse.
It is not easy to have a line in your arm for 10 days with a curious toddler and a newborn baby. Di wants to constantly see my boo boo. I can't shower really, and I forget it is there during late night nursing sessions. Luckily, I was able to keep up with it and clear my infection. Finally, I am feeling good.
A few days later, I had horrendous pain in my abdomen. It started out like labor, coming in waves of rolling contractions and banding out across my abdomen under my ribs. Its impossible to sleep, or even think. To the ER I go, convinced I have gallstones. It appears that the lovely antibiotics did the trick with the infection, but now caused gastritis and pancreatitis. I have a CT scan (hello radiation) and have to pump and dump for 24 hours (I do 36 hours, just to be safe). The bitch of it all is, really, there is nothing they can do. I can take pain meds and antacids and eat bland foods but only time will heal it. I am missing bonding time with my baby, but I am still nursing her, whenever she wants, as much as she wants. I am finally feeling better, just in time to go back to work.
I think I am turning my final rough corner. I can see this going on for a long time. I love to watch her sweet, chubby cheeks pulse as she drinks deeply from me. We sleep together in a tangle of arms, legs and naked bellies pressed to each other. Her dark skin glows blue in the early morning light when she simply turns her head slightly to feed from me. I can't stop staring at her, but those moments, I know with live vividly in my head forever. Where I once struggled to make it to each month's "milkstone", now I feel the months slipping away too quickly, and I desperately want to wrap my arms around time, dig my heels in and hold on as much as I can.
Finally. I am doing it, I am winning. And I don't want to stop. Not even a little, not even for a second.
When Di was born I couldn't be with her for several hours, they warned me it might be hard for her to latch. She did immediately. To this day, she eats anything and everything in site. I should have known when I first locked eyes with my beautiful first born baby girl and she instantly opened her mouth at the sight of me, that food would be a driving factor in her life.
Everyone says it shouldn't hurt. Everyone says it is the most natural thing. Both are true, but not in my case. I had mastitis, I know this now, but at the time it felt like the worst flu I ever had, combined with breast pain and red streaks on my body. It felt like knives slicing off my nipples with every latch. Chunks of skin were ripped from my breasts, hanging like shredded tissue paper. I bled, I cried, I screamed every session, I even caught myself squeezing my daughter as an involuntary reflex to the pain. I still remember the look on her face, confusion. She was just a newborn but she conveyed a message to me I already felt: I was failing.
I will be honest, I looked for every excuse to quit. I needed permission, someone to tell me to just stop. I wanted to hear that she was allergic to my milk, it would explain her horrible, constant colic and alleviate me of my pain and responsibility. I got permission from no one. I even felt a bit guilted into continuing by the online community...I am forever grateful for that.
I purchased a breastpump and OH! What sweet relief! I could pump bottles of milk without pain, my daughter ate to her heart's content, and my husband actually is one of the few men in this world who would wake up at night to feed her. I loved pumping for her. I became proud of it. We call ourselves EPers (exclusive pumper). Its a small group, and it can be tough to feel like you belong. Nursing mothers don't relate, neither do formula mothers. So I didn't tell many people. I proudly said I breastfed, but I didn't say how. I pumped for 10 and a half months, and thanks to an oversupply that could simultaneously feed all the Duggar children, I had enough frozen breastmilk to last well over a year. Good thing too, because now I was pregnant with my little J.
My second daughter wasn't quite as interested in breastfeeding immediately. Probably because the first thing she ever saw, smelled and felt in this world was the floor mat of my Honda CR-V. But after several hours of being apart, her naked body was placed on my naked body. She sniffed at her hands and sniffed at me, searching. The nurses told me not to interfere, to let her find my breast on her own. Incredibly, she did, but was too exhausted to do much nursing. So she used it as a pillow instead, and we slept a long while.
Less than a week after J was born, I had shaking chills, a high fever and pain in my abdomen, breasts and back. Turns out, after many tests, I had mastitis in my left breast, a kidney infection and retained placenta which caused a uterine infection. I was put on 2 oral antibiotics and scheduled for a D&C, during which I got a round of IV antibiotics. Luckily, my mother and grandmother were patient enough to feed J with a syringe as not to compromise our nursing relationship with nipple confusion, and even luckier, I had enough breastmilk pumped to sustain her as I had to pump and dump for 24 hours after.
I m sure I announced to everyone that would come within 6 feet of me that I was breastfeeding, so any procedure, medication or treatment had to be conducive to doing so. I refused any anxiety meds, so I was wide awake in the OR as they strapped me down to a table the width of a popsicle stick and about the same temperature as one. Cozy. I look around the room at the 2 dozen people who will soon have their heads between my legs. A comforting last thought as the light slips from my vision and I am falling into a heavy sleep.
A week later, I am feeling better. My nipples are still cracked and sore. My breast starts to hurt again, that familiar pain, shaking chills, high fevers and red streaks. Mastitis, again. Well crap, I had it before, and a lot of people seem to have it twice. I saw my OB the next day, back on antibiotics. 4 times a day, as if a breastfeeding mom of 2 kids under two has nothing better to do than remember to take pills 4 times a day when I dont remember to eat three times a day or brush my teeth twice a day. But I know I have to, so I set timers and reminders and I diligently, religiously take my pills at 6am, 12 noon, 6pm and midnight.
The pain gets worse, now its on my right breast as well. Back to the doctor, my fever is 102. My OB is dumbfounded, she tells me this. She asks other OBs, and midwives. No one knows what to do. I am already on the strongest, best medication for mastitis and it's getting worse. I have and ultrasound, luckily, no abscess and I am able to avoid another surgery. But now I dont have an answer either. Off to see a specialist of infectious disease. He is an older doctor, who of course recommended stopping breastfeeding immediately. There it is. The excuse I silently begged for the first time. The words I had longed to hear from someone, anyone last time I was in this position. But now, things are different. This time, there is not a chance. I tell him this is not possible, that I won't even consider stopping. He assures me it will cure my mastitis. I do agree with him, but again, reiterate my point. I won't quit, I don't even consider it.
He respects my choice, luckily, as the infection has drained me of energy to fight that battle. He recommends 10 days of IV antibiotics. I start that day in the hospital and have a follow up with a visiting nurse. The nurse who comes to see me is in her 70s and has just badly injured her knee. I have a long, rock driveway and a dozen steps, including several uneven stone steps outside. Because why not break a hip as well. I have to help her up my stairs and help her draw my blood and place a new line. When she is leaving she nearly tumbles down my stone steps and I have to hold her and walk her to her car...my poor nurse.
It is not easy to have a line in your arm for 10 days with a curious toddler and a newborn baby. Di wants to constantly see my boo boo. I can't shower really, and I forget it is there during late night nursing sessions. Luckily, I was able to keep up with it and clear my infection. Finally, I am feeling good.
A few days later, I had horrendous pain in my abdomen. It started out like labor, coming in waves of rolling contractions and banding out across my abdomen under my ribs. Its impossible to sleep, or even think. To the ER I go, convinced I have gallstones. It appears that the lovely antibiotics did the trick with the infection, but now caused gastritis and pancreatitis. I have a CT scan (hello radiation) and have to pump and dump for 24 hours (I do 36 hours, just to be safe). The bitch of it all is, really, there is nothing they can do. I can take pain meds and antacids and eat bland foods but only time will heal it. I am missing bonding time with my baby, but I am still nursing her, whenever she wants, as much as she wants. I am finally feeling better, just in time to go back to work.
I think I am turning my final rough corner. I can see this going on for a long time. I love to watch her sweet, chubby cheeks pulse as she drinks deeply from me. We sleep together in a tangle of arms, legs and naked bellies pressed to each other. Her dark skin glows blue in the early morning light when she simply turns her head slightly to feed from me. I can't stop staring at her, but those moments, I know with live vividly in my head forever. Where I once struggled to make it to each month's "milkstone", now I feel the months slipping away too quickly, and I desperately want to wrap my arms around time, dig my heels in and hold on as much as I can.
Finally. I am doing it, I am winning. And I don't want to stop. Not even a little, not even for a second.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Why being a mom is like being stoned..
Now before you go calling CPS, I am no drug addict, nor have I ever been. I had my fun in college but those days are long gone. My fun now, while it may seem quite dull to most people, even other parents, is watching my daughter squeal at an ant as it wriggles by, or watch her try a new food for the first time, or repeat the occasional curse word that slips out. It shouldn't, but even that gives me great joy and pride.
I got to thinking what being a parent is like, and if I ever could have imagined it when I was living a life without my children. No, babysitting, or being a nanny, or having a puppy, is not like being a parent, not even a little bit. So when I talk to people I knew back in my carefree days of late nights for different reasons, I imagine how I could describe being a mother. I have decided, it could be comparable to being perpetually stoned, and here's why:
#1. You are constantly paranoid. About everything. Other people look at you funny and try to convince you everything is fine. You don't agree. Every small object can be choked on, or swallowed, perhaps cause a bowel obstruction. All my furniture is bolted to the walls of our house to prevent anything from falling. I have installed more drawer ties and locks and baby gates than I can count. Every piece of glass can break, every window is a death trap, every drop of water a drowning hazard. You get the point.
And not just about physical safety, I worry if I don't eat right in front of them, will they learn bad habits? Or what if I eat too healthy and give them a complex? What about teenage girls and driving in cars and eating disorders and losing their virginity to a boy who thinks he is a man because he has a penis and some tattoos? What about their first broken heart, first fail, first broken bone?
Then, the more you parent, the worse it gets. I fear food dyes and artificial sweeteners as if they were poison, what if they are? What if they eat non-organic fruits and vegetables and ingest pesticides? What about hormones in their food, mercury in fish? Crap, I am breastfeeding, now I have to be even more careful about what I eat because JJ eats that...sort of.
The thing is, once you get started on a paranoid streak, it just keeps getting worse. Total buzz kill.
#2: You are always hungry. Breastfeeding makes you pretty ravenous at times. I also forget to eat breakfast, every single day. I feed the kids and organize the house and set up activities and calm tantrums and screaming babies and then it's 11:30 and time for lunch and I have to nurse a baby while cutting up avocado and change diapers and put the toddler down for a nap and the most lunch I get it whatever I dare lick off my finger or a knife which may not always be a butter knife...impaired judgement. At this point I am so hungry that I think of very creative food combinations...like eating that fig bar covered in peanut butter and applesauce....several food groups involved anyway...and it is good! I also make a lot of macaroni and cheese, and order pizza at night, which usually is eaten cold the next day.
#3: Everything is hilarious. This is the best part. Absolutely everything my kids do, is freaking hilarious. They are comedians, the funniest I have ever seen. Blowing spit bubbles, laying a loud fart, or imitating an adult, is the funniest thing you will ever see. Other people don't see the humor, they may even get annoyed at how funny you think it is. They are probably bored with it, bored with you. But you, a parent, in your own little reality, don't care. You just want to watch and laugh and admire this fascinating little creature you are quite sure is some sort of genius the world has never seen.
#4: You think you have discovered something the world has never seen. Your child is the smartest...advanced, no, a genius. Maybe not in a traditional sense, but that noise they just made, that smile, that block they just stacked. Amazing. There is no way any other child in this world has ever done that before. Even if it is not your first child, you are still convinced there is something Earth stopping about this behavior. No one else may understand, but they don't know what you know, they can't see what you see, and it is deeply enthralling, consuming.
Although I have long ago said farewell to my old life as a college cheerleader with a very fulfilling social life, my life now feels like one big party. Everyday I wake up excited, knowing what fun the day will bring. Even the worst day as a parent has a lot of fun in it. Every night I reflect again on my day and my husband and I laugh as we retell each other the same stories about that day that we were both present for anyway, but again laugh and smile and relive those moments.
I know now though, that I won't be young forever, and my children will age much faster than I will at this stage. So I love these moments, I take a lot of pictures, press my nose to my babies' heads and breath deeply, memorizing the smell of them, how soft their skin is and the look in their sky blue eyes when they laugh, cry, pout, or how their eyes twitch in their sleep. I know now, this time is limited, and I want to capture every moment, every first, second and last. I want to remember and relive these moments tomorrow, next week, forever. And I look forward to so many more.
I got to thinking what being a parent is like, and if I ever could have imagined it when I was living a life without my children. No, babysitting, or being a nanny, or having a puppy, is not like being a parent, not even a little bit. So when I talk to people I knew back in my carefree days of late nights for different reasons, I imagine how I could describe being a mother. I have decided, it could be comparable to being perpetually stoned, and here's why:
#1. You are constantly paranoid. About everything. Other people look at you funny and try to convince you everything is fine. You don't agree. Every small object can be choked on, or swallowed, perhaps cause a bowel obstruction. All my furniture is bolted to the walls of our house to prevent anything from falling. I have installed more drawer ties and locks and baby gates than I can count. Every piece of glass can break, every window is a death trap, every drop of water a drowning hazard. You get the point.
And not just about physical safety, I worry if I don't eat right in front of them, will they learn bad habits? Or what if I eat too healthy and give them a complex? What about teenage girls and driving in cars and eating disorders and losing their virginity to a boy who thinks he is a man because he has a penis and some tattoos? What about their first broken heart, first fail, first broken bone?
Then, the more you parent, the worse it gets. I fear food dyes and artificial sweeteners as if they were poison, what if they are? What if they eat non-organic fruits and vegetables and ingest pesticides? What about hormones in their food, mercury in fish? Crap, I am breastfeeding, now I have to be even more careful about what I eat because JJ eats that...sort of.
The thing is, once you get started on a paranoid streak, it just keeps getting worse. Total buzz kill.
#2: You are always hungry. Breastfeeding makes you pretty ravenous at times. I also forget to eat breakfast, every single day. I feed the kids and organize the house and set up activities and calm tantrums and screaming babies and then it's 11:30 and time for lunch and I have to nurse a baby while cutting up avocado and change diapers and put the toddler down for a nap and the most lunch I get it whatever I dare lick off my finger or a knife which may not always be a butter knife...impaired judgement. At this point I am so hungry that I think of very creative food combinations...like eating that fig bar covered in peanut butter and applesauce....several food groups involved anyway...and it is good! I also make a lot of macaroni and cheese, and order pizza at night, which usually is eaten cold the next day.
#3: Everything is hilarious. This is the best part. Absolutely everything my kids do, is freaking hilarious. They are comedians, the funniest I have ever seen. Blowing spit bubbles, laying a loud fart, or imitating an adult, is the funniest thing you will ever see. Other people don't see the humor, they may even get annoyed at how funny you think it is. They are probably bored with it, bored with you. But you, a parent, in your own little reality, don't care. You just want to watch and laugh and admire this fascinating little creature you are quite sure is some sort of genius the world has never seen.
#4: You think you have discovered something the world has never seen. Your child is the smartest...advanced, no, a genius. Maybe not in a traditional sense, but that noise they just made, that smile, that block they just stacked. Amazing. There is no way any other child in this world has ever done that before. Even if it is not your first child, you are still convinced there is something Earth stopping about this behavior. No one else may understand, but they don't know what you know, they can't see what you see, and it is deeply enthralling, consuming.
Although I have long ago said farewell to my old life as a college cheerleader with a very fulfilling social life, my life now feels like one big party. Everyday I wake up excited, knowing what fun the day will bring. Even the worst day as a parent has a lot of fun in it. Every night I reflect again on my day and my husband and I laugh as we retell each other the same stories about that day that we were both present for anyway, but again laugh and smile and relive those moments.
I know now though, that I won't be young forever, and my children will age much faster than I will at this stage. So I love these moments, I take a lot of pictures, press my nose to my babies' heads and breath deeply, memorizing the smell of them, how soft their skin is and the look in their sky blue eyes when they laugh, cry, pout, or how their eyes twitch in their sleep. I know now, this time is limited, and I want to capture every moment, every first, second and last. I want to remember and relive these moments tomorrow, next week, forever. And I look forward to so many more.
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