Christmas magic

About this time of year, every year, I start thinking about this time next year.
I am busy making plans and resolving for how I will do the holidays differently. They were good, but I can always see a way for improvement. A smoother way, more festive but slightly less exhausting and maybe even painless.

I will bake more goodies for friends and family. I will not drive across 3 counties (toting two toddlers plus all their accessories and consequently destroying any hope of normal sleep patterns) to see all our family in 18 hours. I will structure holiday gatherings around what works for my little people. I will tell my husband exactly what it is he should surprise me with on Christmas morning, so I do not receive the latest and greatest electronic gift that was hot on every one's list, except mine.

The problem is that soon after I make all these resolutions I forget them. I forget them long before December rolls around again and it is time to put them into action.

At which time, the same can of pureed pumpkin will still be in the cabinet ready to star in Aunt Bubbie's pumpkin chocolate chip bread. Come Christmas and it's eve, I will undoubtedly make those drives to Newberry, Richland & Lexington counties, taking my own disastrous car nap along the way. And when he asks, I will tell my husband, I really don't know what I want for Christmas.

By the time Christmas night rolls around & we are eating popcorn & left over ham for dinner at 10pm, with two over-tired, yet car nap refreshed toddlers bouncing around, I see that it could be better. So I plan.

But it turns out that the chaos I am trying to prevent, might actually have been the best part of the holiday. I thought it would be a quiet dinner with the hubby, the children all nestled in their beds. Instead, it is much like any other day, one kid insistent on wearing her new helmet while she climbs in and out of our laps at the table, the other playing the new drum set with his new tambourine, while daddy sets up mommy's new kindle fire.

Next December, I won't remember picking up popcorn kernels at 1am or the eventual meltdown. I will remember the joy in their eyes, as it crept into my heart. And the peace on their faces when they crashed.
Ahh, it is the magic of Christmas. Right? At least until next year.

The couch

I have been sleeping on the couch since October.
It's not that I don't want to sleep in my own bed, beside my sweet husband. It's just that sleeping in that bed means there is no sleep for mommy.
It's not a bad mattress or a drafty room. Or tension between the hubby & I. The root of the problem lies just about four feet from my pillow -- it's a white crib that from the hours of seven to seven, contains the sweetest little one year old boy. And when I am in that bed, he knows it.

At 11 months, I knew we should be sleeping through the night. And so did he. But he just couldn't seem to resist some social visits in the wee hours of the morning. He didn't want to eat or even play, just snuggle with mama. While this is flattering and incredibly sweet -- both reasons why I let it go on so long, I mean I have to say I kind of enjoyed those quiet snuggles, just the two of us, in the middle of the night -- it was making me a total basket case. While he seemed to rest soundly during those snuggles, I was readjusting to prevent another crick in my neck and glaring at the clock with one eye counting the minutes until the sun was coming up -- and his older sister. And carefully gauging when he had had enough of me & was ready to hit the sheets again.

One day it occurred to me that my inability to function after 2pm might have something to do with the fact I was waking every 2-4 hours at night. The very fact that this was a revelation to me tells you how tired I was. I mean, duh?
So that night, I put clean sheets and a blanket on the couch, and laid my head on a pillow a room away from that white crib & it's contents.
And I slept.
And so did he. There was a brief call out around midnight, but when the call went unanswered he went back to sleep in a matter of minutes.
And so did I.

A week passed and I thought I'd try to move back into my bed, that his habit would be broken. As I brushed my teeth that night, it was as if he knew I was returning. There were a few whimpers and several restless tosses and turns. It was all I needed to remind me no bed was worth sleepless nights. Back to the couch I went. And there I have stayed.

When we move in a few weeks, we'll all have our own room. And the couch will have it's nights alone back.

It's not perfect. Or pretty (my OCD really wants me to unmake the couch every morning & let our living room be just that). But it works. 
And that is what being a mom is about. Making it work.

a little bliss

This morning I went for a haircut, and a trip to the library, Target, Whole Foods and a quick pop into Starbucks. It was divine.
When I left my kiddos were off for a walk in the crisp air with their daddy and when I returned lunch was done and naps were in progress. 
To this momma this is otherwise known as pure bliss.

I enjoyed every single second of my me time. Just as it should be.

However, everywhere I went there was a mom who wasn't having a pure bliss day...

At the library, my heart sunk, listening to the overwhelmed mom of 4 (I think, I was having a hard keeping count as they dashed and darted around) -- I heard her tone and I recognized it. It was exhausted, trying to be upbeat and do-the-right-thing at the public library, but ohmigosh will you please just pick out your books and sit in the stroller, and no we cannot get that video.

At Target, there was the mom of two, one in a infant carrier, the other a toddler. When I first spotted her the infant was sleeping and the toddler appeared to have dozed off in the cart too. I had a twinge of jealousy -- how come my children never sleep on outings & allow me to browse the Target clothes in peace? Not ten minutes later, I saw the toddler darting out of a rack of clothes and then her mom come wheeling around the corner with an exasperated look on her face -- mixed with a touch of panic as her child had gotten out of sight. I pointed in the direction I had spotted her & said "pink tights, right?"
In the cosmetics aisle I heard wailing from several aisles away and couldn't resist strolling that way -- I might need, ummm, toothpaste. There was a less than one year old screaming at the top of her lungs, refusing the sippy cup that seemed to be mom's only hope. I couldn't help but remember Rebecca's first trips out (mostly to Target) which all ended with a lot of screaming and me hanging my head as I scooped up the necessary items (toilet paper for example) and hoped for short check out lines.

At Whole Foods, there was a precious nearly one year old, sucking on an organic mushed fruit packet in the front of her cart. She seemed happy, needs met, content. When they checked out, I just happened (no really) to be behind them. Mom was buying the same organic baby food my little one has now outgrown and I wanted to get her address and send her our leftovers. I resisted. As I left the store, mom was returning with marked look of concern on her face. Keys lost. Somewhere between the car and the store and checking out. Oh no. I offered to help her look for them, as a store manager took over.

It was my morning of bliss. But as I headed home, I felt a little guilty. Those mommas needed a little bliss too.
We all do.
Hopefully, next time I am out with both kids and Rebecca is demanding to stand in the front of the cart on one leg and Durham is arching his back in the front carrier and pulling my hair and biting my chin, one of these moms will stroll past me sipping their green tea from Starbucks and smile and think lovingly of their children at home.

Big grey box

For the first year of her life, I am not sure what my little girl thought the big grey box in the corner of the living room was.
It just sat there, quietly. Waiting.

I was adamant about not exposing her to television -- "It is a slippery slope," I told my husband, "Nothing good can come from her watching TV. No, nothing, not even the educational programs."
And she was blissfully happy -- as was I.

And then one day, someone (it wasn't me) turned on the grey box and it talked and sang and the characters in the box danced.
And that someone kept turning it on and eventually I got wind of it.
I had to push down all of my control issues and smile and say, "well isn't that nice, she sure does seem to like it." (big surprise)

I continued to resist turning it on. In fact, for months, I told her "no" almost every time she asked me. (let someone else rot her brain, not me)
She still played with puzzles, begged to go outside and take a walk, read books, colored, & chased her now crawling brother around the house.

One evening, while juggling an 11 month old and two year old - I realized that bedtimes went a lot smoother with the addition of the great distractor -- TV. The same held true at nap times.
Suddenly, it appeared that television, in moderation, might be OK.

I still tell her "no" more than she would like. And I still cringe every time I say "yes."
It isn't because I really think it is rotting her brain. And her love affair with Bert & Ernie is truly precious. It is because as her mom, I am convinced it is my job to only offer her the best -- to never put her in a situation where she receives less than the ultimate. And when she's watching TV, I am not sure it is the best quality use of time. At the same time, as her mom, it is my hope to teach her how to enjoy, in moderation,the less better things in life and TV may just be the beginning.

Wasn't that great?

Last night there were boxes covering the living and dining rooms, spilling into the kitchen and the hallway. In these boxes were the pieces of the past two years I cannot yet bear to part with.
 
It has been a chaotic two years -- full of sleepless nights, breast pumps, expensive hypoallergenic formula, bottles, reflux medications and then a repeat performance.
It has been a time of serious adjustment for me. And my husband.
It has been a time of loss of self. And gain of others.
I never imagined the changes I would go through. The sacrifices I would let myself make.
And try as I might, I couldn't imagine the joy I would ultimately feel.

It was all packed up in those boxes -- boppy pillows, moby wraps, stained onesies and smocked newborn Christmas dresses -- not to mention my size 6 jeans --but that is another post yet to come.
I found myself sniffing the baby clothes and recounting the memories of each piece -- "oh I remember her wearing this outfit and I was sitting in the backseat with her on the way home from your sister's house and wondering (& of course, asking on facebook) if she would ever sit in her car seat and not scream. Wasn't that great?"

A few things, I was able to move to the give away pile and feel good that another child might have a warm snowsuit or a cozy set of pj's this winter.

But the others, I put back into their boxes. For memories. Or maybe, just maybe, one day, despite my husband's insistence that a family of four is gracious plenty, maybe.
I am still holding out hope.

Waiting for a leak

I wrote this note on facebook after the Newsweek breastfeeding cover.



Lately there has been so much hoopla in the media about breast feeding. It weighs on my mind.
I read articles about prolonged breast feeding & how good it is for everyone involved. I read about how overall the medical field doesn't support breast feeding the way it should. I read about moms judging other moms for their choices. I read about society judging moms.
I end up feeling judged.
What a lot of those articles describe leave me feeling like a breast feeding failure. And I am not.
It makes me wonder about the well-intentioned experts encouraging this judgement.
Before becoming a mother, I had a lot of plans & ideas.
On the top of my list was breast feeding. Exclusively. For at least a year.
I did everything I was supposed to. I had a healthy pregnancy, an unmedicated birth, my precious newborn latched minutes after being born. All was going according to my birth plan. I nursed her as often as she wanted. I kept her close to me. I wouldn't let her go to the hospital nursery (I had heard all the horror stories about pacifiers and formula and evil nursery nurses). I didn't accept the free formula or accompanying diaper bag. It was a beautiful thing.
I went home. I nursed her and nursed her and nursed her. I drank plenty of water. I ate well. I took gentle walks outside. I was the picture of happiness.
She latched on like a champ, was happy to be there. And I couldn't have been happier to have her there. I was so proud.
I read & re-read my LaLeche League breast feeding book.
My breasts didn't get heavy and full. I could hand express and see the colostrum had changed to milk. I waited for the heaviness, the aching full breasts.
My patient baby kept on suckling.
At her first pediatrician check, her weight dropped. My pediatrician encouraged me to keep breast feeding. She watched baby latch & told me we were a beautiful nursing pair. A weight drop could be expected. We would re-check in a few days.
Her weight didn't pick up. My pediatrician referred us to the practice's lactation consultant. Told us to keep breast feeding, and let the expert evaluate her latch.
The expert worked to tweak our latch & then did a pre and post feed weight check. No wonder those breasts weren't aching and leaking, they were practically empty. Not empty, but practically. Don't despair, she reassured me, you can pump and try some herbals to increase your supply.
So I pumped dutifully after each feeding. If I wasn't offering my baby my nearly empty breasts they were hooked to a pump.
I took fenugreek around the clock and reeked of maple syrup.
I read & re-read my breast feeding books. I ordered more. I read those too.
My supply increased, minimally. Baby's weight did not increase, however.
Time for the big guns, pharmaceuticals. I went to my midwife begging for a prescription for domperidone. I acknowledged the off-label use, shelled out big bucks for this non-covered compounded medication & waited for leaky breasts.
No leaks.
As a last resort, it was rock bottom, my lactation consultant suggested supplementation. I cried. I cry now thinking about it. I did not want to give up breast feeding.
In a last effort to preserve breastfeeding, I taped a feeding tube to my own breast & supplemented via syringe with formula. It leaked all over my poochy postpartum belly. The smell was so strong, so unpleasant, so unnatural. I was leaking. Formula.
I did this day & night for more than a week. I jokingly talked about feeding her the poison supplements, through streams of tears.
Eventually, I took a leap of faith. I offered her supplement with a bottle. I was sure once she had the bottle our breast feeding would be a thing of the past. But I was wrong. She accepted both.
She gained weight. She smiled. She is now nearly two and as near to perfect as I can imagine.
My amazing body failed me. It failed her. This completely natural thing didn't happen.
Since having my first child, I have been diagnosed with hypoplastic breast syndrome -- this is when a woman has insufficient breast tissue “milk producing cells” inside her breasts, causing her to either have no milk at all or a very low milk supply. This condition is also called hypoplasia, tubular breast syndrome or tuberous breast. (this definition is from the La Leche League breast feeding book -- Make More Milk)
I did things a little differently with my second baby. I knew more. I trusted me more. I cried a little less when my breasts didn't reach their full potential. Like his sister, he too accepted both formula & the breast. Like his sister, he gained weight & smiled. And at seven months is now as near to perfect as his sister.
I needed to write this to remember why I am proud of my breast feeding story.
I needed to share it with you, so that we can all remember that each story is different. And the numbers and statistics don't have faces -- but they all have a story.

Going to the country gonna eat me a lot of peaches (but I might have to drive to town if I want organic ones…)

 In a little less than two months, we are packing up and moving. Just up the road. There are details galore to be sorted out. Including who will rent our house in town that we have outgrown, bursting at the seams.

And there is a lot to be excited about -- Living where my husband grew up, with a big yard and quiet trees.  Good schools for growing little minds. Across the street from the lake, with lake access, (not that we have a boat, but don’t sweat the small stuff.) A third bedroom, hallelujah.  Did I mention that everyone will have their own assigned bedroom? (let’s be honest this is what sold me)

But what we are leaving behind seems just as big and wonderful, and sentimental. This is the house I bought as a single working woman -- young, hopeful, but maybe a little sad too. In this house something amazing grew, out of me. I couldn’t have seen it coming, because, as I am learning, the best things in life are never in your sight. Here in this place, I became the person I always hoped to be, but nothing like I imagined.

I was proposed to in the front yard. Drank wine on the back deck and debated plans for the future.  Celebrated Coy’s 30^th birthday and then my own, on said deck. There is a hill in this neighborhood, about a mile away, that after running up twice in my life, I have thought to myself “hmmm that was exhausting, I am exhausted. I don’t feel like me” and subsequently known I was pregnant. The rooms in this house have watched us bring home babies and become a mom and dad. First steps and first birthdays and first Christmases have all happened here.    

And I am not ready to go. But I am. I am going. And I am, although hesitant to admit it, maybe a little excited.

Excited for the new memories. And the opportunity to build something that is truly ours.

For as I am learning, the best is surely yet to come.

Here I am

I have been told before I should write a blog -- maybe to encourage me to post less on Facebook, maybe because I once found a lot of enjoyment in writing, maybe because I have something to say.

So here I am.

In this blog you are most likely to hear me talking about being a mom and how amazing and challenging and rewarding it is.
You might hear a little about my struggle to take care of myself in the midst of life. If I am brave enough to share.
You might even catch a glimpse of the fact that I am a nurse, almost a nurse practitioner.
You might find a good recipe and share in my love of food -- and good for you food.
You might be drawn to my desire to be more natural, less excessive and all organic. You might also relate to my failures in the same.

I am looking forward to it.
I hope you might be too.