Monday, March 30, 2015
Friday, March 13, 2015
Lumps, bumps, and Teddy Grahams
I know I said in my last post that I don't tend to do a lot of worrying in life, so what I'm about to launch into is really going to put my credibility into question. I accept that.
It's hard for me, though, not to worry about lumps.
But they're scary for everyone, aren't they? Haven't we all been conditioned to fear that mysterious lump that seems to have just appeared out of nowhere? And to then wrack our brains as to whether or not it did just mysteriously appear at all - or just maybe it's been there for ages, creeping up slowly and steadily in size, and now there it is whispering our name ominously, and oh God... what IS that? Am I dying? Okay let's just stop and be rational, we think. Don't Google it, whatever you do, you tell yourself - except well, it's probably best if I just have a quick little Google check. I'll only click on the first few links, and I promise not to visit a single forum. And above all bloody else, I'll stick to the code and I Will Not Press the Images Button. ...Okay I did. This is bad. It's bad. ...It's bad.
And so what, then, if that little lump shows up on your child? Dare I even venture down that path to explain to you how scary to the power of one hundred it is to see a lump on your little walking, talking toddler?
It happened to us once already - a lump, ensuing tests, uncertainty; a cancer scare - and behold, benign that little tumor ended up being, rendering us utterly and completely beside ourselves with relief. But little did I realize at the time, it ingrained within me a quiet, silent and steadfast fear - or a realization, maybe - that this baby girl of mine could be snatched out from under me at any time. Finding a tumor on my daughter inadvertently had this effect on me.
And this morning we found ourselves at the doctor's office once again, this time to bring to attention two tiny lumps sitting right below Margot's bottom eyelash line on her right eye. I will confess that they've been there for what seems like an eternity - probably six months or more - but as time passed, and they didn't disappear, I decided it best to talk to her pediatrician about it. She gave us a referral to an ophthalmologist, and this morning we made our way over with some distinct level of trepidation.
I really hate taking her to doctor's appointments, in all honesty. Without fail, the mood is light while we're in the waiting room, and then the moment a nurse comes around the corner and says her name, she loses all her shit. Every ounce of it. She screams, "NOOOO!" while tears careen down her face, then clings to me like should she release her grip from around my neck even slightly, the world will implode and all of humankind will disappear into oblivion.
So this morning, pre-appointment, I was tense. I coached her throughout breakfast, though, maybe as much for her benefit as for mine.
"We're going to go to the doctor's office today, okay, babe? Everything's gonna be just fine. Mama's going to be with you the whole time; and I need you to be a big girl, okay? No crying."
But sure enough, emotions exploded out of her face as soon as it was our turn to be called. It was a long walk down that hallway, loud and disheveled, but eventually we made it; and while I like to think we achieved calm thanks to my presence, my voice and my touch, there's really no question it had everything to do with three huge stickers and a little bag of Teddy Grahams that the nurse procured.
And, after a wildly successful examination, I'm relieved once again to report that these little eye bumps are nothing more than blocked oil glands, with no further need for attention in the foreseeable future.
Maybe I'm a worrier, maybe I'm a Class-A stereotypical textbook first-time Mother. Maybe both.
At any rate, we made our way back home and rewarded ourselves with some time together, gallivanting around in our backyard. Me with my camera, and she with her tummy full of stickers on the outside, and Teddy Grahams on the inside.
It's hard for me, though, not to worry about lumps.
But they're scary for everyone, aren't they? Haven't we all been conditioned to fear that mysterious lump that seems to have just appeared out of nowhere? And to then wrack our brains as to whether or not it did just mysteriously appear at all - or just maybe it's been there for ages, creeping up slowly and steadily in size, and now there it is whispering our name ominously, and oh God... what IS that? Am I dying? Okay let's just stop and be rational, we think. Don't Google it, whatever you do, you tell yourself - except well, it's probably best if I just have a quick little Google check. I'll only click on the first few links, and I promise not to visit a single forum. And above all bloody else, I'll stick to the code and I Will Not Press the Images Button. ...Okay I did. This is bad. It's bad. ...It's bad.
And so what, then, if that little lump shows up on your child? Dare I even venture down that path to explain to you how scary to the power of one hundred it is to see a lump on your little walking, talking toddler?
It happened to us once already - a lump, ensuing tests, uncertainty; a cancer scare - and behold, benign that little tumor ended up being, rendering us utterly and completely beside ourselves with relief. But little did I realize at the time, it ingrained within me a quiet, silent and steadfast fear - or a realization, maybe - that this baby girl of mine could be snatched out from under me at any time. Finding a tumor on my daughter inadvertently had this effect on me.
And this morning we found ourselves at the doctor's office once again, this time to bring to attention two tiny lumps sitting right below Margot's bottom eyelash line on her right eye. I will confess that they've been there for what seems like an eternity - probably six months or more - but as time passed, and they didn't disappear, I decided it best to talk to her pediatrician about it. She gave us a referral to an ophthalmologist, and this morning we made our way over with some distinct level of trepidation.
I really hate taking her to doctor's appointments, in all honesty. Without fail, the mood is light while we're in the waiting room, and then the moment a nurse comes around the corner and says her name, she loses all her shit. Every ounce of it. She screams, "NOOOO!" while tears careen down her face, then clings to me like should she release her grip from around my neck even slightly, the world will implode and all of humankind will disappear into oblivion.
So this morning, pre-appointment, I was tense. I coached her throughout breakfast, though, maybe as much for her benefit as for mine.
"We're going to go to the doctor's office today, okay, babe? Everything's gonna be just fine. Mama's going to be with you the whole time; and I need you to be a big girl, okay? No crying."
But sure enough, emotions exploded out of her face as soon as it was our turn to be called. It was a long walk down that hallway, loud and disheveled, but eventually we made it; and while I like to think we achieved calm thanks to my presence, my voice and my touch, there's really no question it had everything to do with three huge stickers and a little bag of Teddy Grahams that the nurse procured.
And, after a wildly successful examination, I'm relieved once again to report that these little eye bumps are nothing more than blocked oil glands, with no further need for attention in the foreseeable future.
Maybe I'm a worrier, maybe I'm a Class-A stereotypical textbook first-time Mother. Maybe both.
At any rate, we made our way back home and rewarded ourselves with some time together, gallivanting around in our backyard. Me with my camera, and she with her tummy full of stickers on the outside, and Teddy Grahams on the inside.
Sunday, March 8, 2015
Mother I am, me I will be.
I don't fancy myself a worrier.
My family as it stands is made up of a handful of women who are powerful, capable, and strong; and it's an understatement to say that I am proud to be one of them - to stand beside these women and call them mother, sister, sister.
I grew up as a daughter of the strongest woman I know; and I like to think that even just a shred of my mother's confidence rubbed off on me. If not for genetics' sake, then at the very least because it's hard not to take it to heart when you're told over and over again throughout the course of your life that you need not worry, because everything's going to be just fine. Because after all, really, hasn't it always been?
Then I became a mother myself, though. I opted to form and raise up a small and ever-growing person, totally independent of me, albeit with an intent to raise her up to be powerful, capable and strong all on her own - but in doing so, I set free a very piece of myself to walk freely around, out and off into the world, without being so much as tethered to me by some unbreakable umbilical cord. (Or even just one of those leashed backpacks.)
And so as it turns out, I can't seem to shake but an ounce of worry that something's going to happen; not to her, though - but to me. Because whereas before motherhood I mattered, yes, but I matter now exponentially more so. I don't just belong to myself anymore.
I'm somebody's mother. But more importantly, I'm Margot's mama. I'm the one who does up the zipper on her pyjamas before bed ("Do up the snaps, mama! NO, dada! Mama do it!!"), the one who rubs her back if she wakes up from a bad dream, and the one who just...is. And this is not to say that nobody else in the universe can provide that girl with comfort, support, and zipped-up pyjamas at nighttime, but dare we not admit that nobody but nobody will ever replace our mother?
What I am remembering, though, is that I am not a person made up of microscopic mother-cells. A mother I am, of course, but as I have said before, I am not defined by this. Those cells that have banded together in order to act as this living, breathing me are exactly that: they're me-cells.
And so above and beyond all that may worry me - regardless of any moment in which I succumb briefly to fear - in spite of any of those exaggerated and fleeting moments of anxiety - I know that it's my responsibility - and my privilege - to go forth into the world and be me.
My family as it stands is made up of a handful of women who are powerful, capable, and strong; and it's an understatement to say that I am proud to be one of them - to stand beside these women and call them mother, sister, sister.
I grew up as a daughter of the strongest woman I know; and I like to think that even just a shred of my mother's confidence rubbed off on me. If not for genetics' sake, then at the very least because it's hard not to take it to heart when you're told over and over again throughout the course of your life that you need not worry, because everything's going to be just fine. Because after all, really, hasn't it always been?
Then I became a mother myself, though. I opted to form and raise up a small and ever-growing person, totally independent of me, albeit with an intent to raise her up to be powerful, capable and strong all on her own - but in doing so, I set free a very piece of myself to walk freely around, out and off into the world, without being so much as tethered to me by some unbreakable umbilical cord. (Or even just one of those leashed backpacks.)
And so as it turns out, I can't seem to shake but an ounce of worry that something's going to happen; not to her, though - but to me. Because whereas before motherhood I mattered, yes, but I matter now exponentially more so. I don't just belong to myself anymore.
I'm somebody's mother. But more importantly, I'm Margot's mama. I'm the one who does up the zipper on her pyjamas before bed ("Do up the snaps, mama! NO, dada! Mama do it!!"), the one who rubs her back if she wakes up from a bad dream, and the one who just...is. And this is not to say that nobody else in the universe can provide that girl with comfort, support, and zipped-up pyjamas at nighttime, but dare we not admit that nobody but nobody will ever replace our mother?
What I am remembering, though, is that I am not a person made up of microscopic mother-cells. A mother I am, of course, but as I have said before, I am not defined by this. Those cells that have banded together in order to act as this living, breathing me are exactly that: they're me-cells.
And so above and beyond all that may worry me - regardless of any moment in which I succumb briefly to fear - in spite of any of those exaggerated and fleeting moments of anxiety - I know that it's my responsibility - and my privilege - to go forth into the world and be me.
Monday, February 16, 2015
Two, I love you.
I know age two is hard. I've heard it a thousand times over; and it's been ingrained into my system that two is just a precursor to three, which is, in its own right, a fresh hell demanding to be conquered when all systems scream no.
And I know we're only six days into it, but oh... I need to hop softly onto this fragile limb and report how insanely and unbelievably delightful two has been so far. Two, yes, and all the days leading up to it.
I'm not saying I'm any stranger to tantrums, misbehavior, sneaky secrets, or fierce, unwarranted independence - I am not, I assure you - but Margot, in her purest form, is just one of the sweetest human beings I've ever had the pleasure of meeting.
She has no qualms about barreling through a crowded room with a small footstool or doll stroller, bumping into grownup shins or rolling over grownup toes. She always smells faintly of peanuts even though she carries her distinctly perfect she-smell. She still sucks her thumb to garner peace amidst chaos, and still vocalizes the questions she wants to be asked, then responds to your offer as though it was your idea all along:
"Are you hungry, mama?"
"Margot, are you hungry?"
"Okay."
__
"Hold you, mama?"
"Want me to hold you, babe?"
"Okay."
__
She routinely removes her socks & boots when we're driving anywhere, in spite of our current mantra being PLEASE LEAVE YOUR SOCKS AND BOOTS ON WHILE WE'RE DRIVING; and then goes, "UUGHGGHHHH!" as soon as I open her car door and see what she's done - thereby so considerately saving me from having to do it. (Thanks, girl, but I still so need to UUGHGHGHHH when these sub-zero temperatures are freezing my fingers as I claw around the backseat for strewn footwear, then re-attach them to ten tiny little toes on two sweet feet.)
If I decline any request of hers, she says, "Okay, mama; maybe later."
I believe there exists a delicate balance of time together and time apart in order to make any relationship good and well and ultimately lasting; and while I undoubtedly go through pangs of missing her while I'm at work (always), and equally so, bouts of needing to fly off into the sunset when we're home together, I'm so grateful for this rhythm we're in. We're making it work, and I feel so blessed to call this girl my own.
This babe of mine, nary a babe at all anymore, is aging rapidly yet steadily and I'm still trying to figure out how I ever cared to do life before she existed.
And I know we're only six days into it, but oh... I need to hop softly onto this fragile limb and report how insanely and unbelievably delightful two has been so far. Two, yes, and all the days leading up to it.
I'm not saying I'm any stranger to tantrums, misbehavior, sneaky secrets, or fierce, unwarranted independence - I am not, I assure you - but Margot, in her purest form, is just one of the sweetest human beings I've ever had the pleasure of meeting.
She has no qualms about barreling through a crowded room with a small footstool or doll stroller, bumping into grownup shins or rolling over grownup toes. She always smells faintly of peanuts even though she carries her distinctly perfect she-smell. She still sucks her thumb to garner peace amidst chaos, and still vocalizes the questions she wants to be asked, then responds to your offer as though it was your idea all along:
"Are you hungry, mama?"
"Margot, are you hungry?"
"Okay."
__
"Hold you, mama?"
"Want me to hold you, babe?"
"Okay."
__
She routinely removes her socks & boots when we're driving anywhere, in spite of our current mantra being PLEASE LEAVE YOUR SOCKS AND BOOTS ON WHILE WE'RE DRIVING; and then goes, "UUGHGGHHHH!" as soon as I open her car door and see what she's done - thereby so considerately saving me from having to do it. (Thanks, girl, but I still so need to UUGHGHGHHH when these sub-zero temperatures are freezing my fingers as I claw around the backseat for strewn footwear, then re-attach them to ten tiny little toes on two sweet feet.)
If I decline any request of hers, she says, "Okay, mama; maybe later."
I believe there exists a delicate balance of time together and time apart in order to make any relationship good and well and ultimately lasting; and while I undoubtedly go through pangs of missing her while I'm at work (always), and equally so, bouts of needing to fly off into the sunset when we're home together, I'm so grateful for this rhythm we're in. We're making it work, and I feel so blessed to call this girl my own.
This babe of mine, nary a babe at all anymore, is aging rapidly yet steadily and I'm still trying to figure out how I ever cared to do life before she existed.
Tuesday, February 10, 2015
Two whole years.
Well, it happened. I don't know how, I don't know when, but somehow that tiny squishy squirmy girl of mine, swimming around in my beautiful belly, born into the water three days past due, turned two years old.
Somehow we've spent the last two entire years growing together, smiling at each other, laughing, crying, and holding sticky hands. Somehow time passed at lightning speed, and stood completely and quietly still while my girl grew and grew and transformed into this sweet human, and while I grew and grew and transformed into a strong, capable and beautiful version of myself.
Margot, can we talk for a sec? Can I just have a minute to tell you a few things? You, my girl, are more beautiful, more precious to me, and more outstanding than even my wild imagination could have conjured up.
You're hilarious, you're smart, and you're keenly observant. You sing the alphabet, recognize letters and numbers, and can count almost all the way up to 20 in English and in French. ("En français, mama? Okay. ....No sank you en français. All done en français.")
You love dancing, drinking from a straw, taking baths, eating snow off the bottoms of your boots (ew), and above all else, you love to talk.
"Do you hear dat noise?"
"I had a beer."
"Stop, dada. Don't do dat."
"I need a bike."
"I never see Uncle Eric."
You're a little smarty pants, and it's an utter pleasure having conversations with you.
I just put you down for a nap and I can hear you talking to yourself over the baby monitor: "Hello? How are you?! I need a shower." (Oh, and now you're singing Happy Birthday to yourself on repeat.)
I want to bottle you up inside a mason jar and carry you around with me, except not any part of me wants to put this on pause. I'm having too much fun.
Happy birthday, babe. You are lovely and perfect beyond my wildest dreams.
Margot, can we talk for a sec? Can I just have a minute to tell you a few things? You, my girl, are more beautiful, more precious to me, and more outstanding than even my wild imagination could have conjured up.
You're hilarious, you're smart, and you're keenly observant. You sing the alphabet, recognize letters and numbers, and can count almost all the way up to 20 in English and in French. ("En français, mama? Okay. ....No sank you en français. All done en français.")
You love dancing, drinking from a straw, taking baths, eating snow off the bottoms of your boots (ew), and above all else, you love to talk.
"Do you hear dat noise?"
"I had a beer."
"Stop, dada. Don't do dat."
"I need a bike."
"I never see Uncle Eric."
You're a little smarty pants, and it's an utter pleasure having conversations with you.
I just put you down for a nap and I can hear you talking to yourself over the baby monitor: "Hello? How are you?! I need a shower." (Oh, and now you're singing Happy Birthday to yourself on repeat.)
I want to bottle you up inside a mason jar and carry you around with me, except not any part of me wants to put this on pause. I'm having too much fun.
Happy birthday, babe. You are lovely and perfect beyond my wildest dreams.
Tuesday, December 16, 2014
Breathing room, or lack thereof
I've been issued a court-legislated restraining order from my dear darling daughter. And by that I mean Daryl just got home after a day at work, and having had received a number of texts from me containing a long list of expletives, he all but stuffed my feet into my boots and shoved me out the door so that I could take care of myself and pick up my scattered pieces. Today started out completely fine, and then transformed into an afternoon of me grasping desperately at straws in order to gather my Qi and become zen, then failing miserably, then opting out of even trying anymore whatsoever. This afternoon in its final form turned into an angry mess of noise while Margot bawled her eyes out on and off for hours, and I yelled back at her as if I was ever going to win a contest by making my voice louder than hers.
It's amazing how I can hear a voice travel through my head on repeat telling me not to let my own emotions rise up, match or rival those of a cranky toddler - and yet disregard it wholly while my heart screams back that I do not care - and it does so with great indignation - because right now I'm angry and she's angry and the angrier we are the angrier we get and yes it's very loud in here but WE'RE JUST BEING HONEST ABOUT HOW WE FEEL. And honest communication is the pillar of any good and healthy relationship, right?
And because correct me if I'm wrong, but is there anybody else in this house at this moment who's here to deal with this girl? Or to whisk me away to a cloud of pillows and feathers and billows of dry ice, then take over my role as mother and comforter and disciplinarian and supporter and teacher and nose-blower and tear-wiper and and and and and...?
And if a tree falls in the forest, will a toddler who only napped for 45 minutes today express any notion of level-headedness or rationality when there's a blanket touching her arm (the nerve) or when her sippy cup isn't placed precisely in the south-west corner of her crib? NO. The answer is no. So if another tree falls in the forest, ....no. I just don't care. It turns out that today I'm inevitably going to err on the side of extremely and overtly irrational in my response. I'll issue a formal apology later. But for now, I'm stewing and decompressing. Because I'm lucky enough to have a husband who throws me out the front door, throw a handful of cash at me, and tells me to take the laptop and sit at Caribou Coffee while he insists that I don't dare walk back in the door a minute before dinner at 6:30.
Okay. Deep breaths.
I'm still a post-miscarriage pile of crap. Did you get that notion? I'm not writing frequently enough, I'm not nurturing my heart or my soul enough, and I've essentially turned into a sedentary lump that wafts between feeling like a firefly trapped in a mason jar, and like ...like a sedentary lump.
And how dare I yell and stew and swear and frown and stomp and whimper when I share my home and my life with this person?
I blew the dust off my camera the other day and took pictures of this heart-stoppingly beautiful human being; of this little person who nuzzles into my neck and tells me of her own accord that she loves me "so muts" and who laughs and dares me to tickle her armpits and who eats her weight in yogurt as though it's going extinct tomorrow and who dances with fervor to Sia's Chandelier and Toto's Rosanna and pretty much anything by Justin Timberlake.
Being a parent is an overwhelmingly wild ride. Raising a child demands of us every fiber of energy we possess, and then squeezes us harder at exactly the moment that we start to relent. It calls us to exercise superhuman levels of patience and humility, and to show unending grace even at our very weary worst, and somehow - somehow - raises us up all the while to do every one of these things with great and tireless love.
Even when we need to put our boots and coats on and lie down in the street and roll ourselves along down the road and drag our bodies by our cold and determined fingers to the nearest refuge / coffee shop for a series of long, deep breaths.
It's amazing how I can hear a voice travel through my head on repeat telling me not to let my own emotions rise up, match or rival those of a cranky toddler - and yet disregard it wholly while my heart screams back that I do not care - and it does so with great indignation - because right now I'm angry and she's angry and the angrier we are the angrier we get and yes it's very loud in here but WE'RE JUST BEING HONEST ABOUT HOW WE FEEL. And honest communication is the pillar of any good and healthy relationship, right?
And because correct me if I'm wrong, but is there anybody else in this house at this moment who's here to deal with this girl? Or to whisk me away to a cloud of pillows and feathers and billows of dry ice, then take over my role as mother and comforter and disciplinarian and supporter and teacher and nose-blower and tear-wiper and and and and and...?
And if a tree falls in the forest, will a toddler who only napped for 45 minutes today express any notion of level-headedness or rationality when there's a blanket touching her arm (the nerve) or when her sippy cup isn't placed precisely in the south-west corner of her crib? NO. The answer is no. So if another tree falls in the forest, ....no. I just don't care. It turns out that today I'm inevitably going to err on the side of extremely and overtly irrational in my response. I'll issue a formal apology later. But for now, I'm stewing and decompressing. Because I'm lucky enough to have a husband who throws me out the front door, throw a handful of cash at me, and tells me to take the laptop and sit at Caribou Coffee while he insists that I don't dare walk back in the door a minute before dinner at 6:30.
Okay. Deep breaths.
I'm still a post-miscarriage pile of crap. Did you get that notion? I'm not writing frequently enough, I'm not nurturing my heart or my soul enough, and I've essentially turned into a sedentary lump that wafts between feeling like a firefly trapped in a mason jar, and like ...like a sedentary lump.
And how dare I yell and stew and swear and frown and stomp and whimper when I share my home and my life with this person?
I blew the dust off my camera the other day and took pictures of this heart-stoppingly beautiful human being; of this little person who nuzzles into my neck and tells me of her own accord that she loves me "so muts" and who laughs and dares me to tickle her armpits and who eats her weight in yogurt as though it's going extinct tomorrow and who dances with fervor to Sia's Chandelier and Toto's Rosanna and pretty much anything by Justin Timberlake.
Being a parent is an overwhelmingly wild ride. Raising a child demands of us every fiber of energy we possess, and then squeezes us harder at exactly the moment that we start to relent. It calls us to exercise superhuman levels of patience and humility, and to show unending grace even at our very weary worst, and somehow - somehow - raises us up all the while to do every one of these things with great and tireless love.
Even when we need to put our boots and coats on and lie down in the street and roll ourselves along down the road and drag our bodies by our cold and determined fingers to the nearest refuge / coffee shop for a series of long, deep breaths.
Tuesday, November 25, 2014
Boring and crazy.
Life for me as of late has consisted mainly of mundane days that blend in to one another with such ease that it's hard for me to recall which day is which, or even what I had for breakfast this morning. Winter arrived in one fell swoop (a blizzard, that is), and with it came these freezing temperatures that make it so painstakingly difficult for me to muster up the energy to bundle up and go anywhere.
I'm still riding this colossal wave of hormones following my miscarriage. Certain days go by where it feels like all I really managed to accomplish was to quell the nearly insatiable desire in my heart to set fire to the universe and flush myself down the toilet. Needless to say, I'm waiting rather impatiently for my body and my hormones to regulate - and in the meantime, I'm crying over Christmas music and yelling at the boots sitting in my front foyer.
She's starting to wean from breastfeeding. This is something that I knew would come one day, and probably someday soon, and my plan all along was for her to lead the way; but now that she is - oh, my heart... I'm sad about it. Just this morning I tried offering to nurse her, but "No, thank you," she said.
"Are you sure?" I replied, as I sat down with her in my lap.
But instead of latching on, she again said, "No thank you," and then proceeded to push and shove my boob out of her face, saying, "Put it away. Put it away."
...Oh. Okay, hilarious human being. Did you just turn into an embarrassed teenager overnight?
Speaking of overnight, she's sleeping through the night. With this statement comes a wild and exaggerated dance number that I bust out every time I say it. Because SHE'S SLEEPING THROUGH THE NIGHT. You heard that, right? It only took almost two years... no biggie!
I think in this picture you can see exactly how weary I am, how stupid-happy I am, and how in love with this girl I am.
And the one thing you can't really see is the sweet little shiner I'm sporting on my right eye since Margot head-butted me last week. You know when something hurts so bad that you just instantly and uncontrollably burst into tears? That. My first black eye!
Friday, November 7, 2014
Honesty is always the best policy
I know that generally speaking, silence is a bad thing when there's a toddler around. That is certainly no exception in this household. But as kids grow up, they're apt to avert punishment if they're doing something they know is wrong, usually by lying, skirting around the issue, or bending the story.
With Margot, though, I feel as though I'm stuck in this magically hilarious blip in time where yes, silence usually means she's up to no good, but she knows nothing yet about deceit - and to boot, she loves to talk.
So this morning, while I was toiling away at putting plastic up over our windows to keep the near-freezing outdoor temperatures from creeping into our house, there came a point where I realized I was too absorbed in what I was doing, and that Margot had disappeared. She'd been keeping me company up until that point, doing some doodling in Daryl's bedside notepad, using a little photograph as a telephone on which to call her Nana for a chat, trying on a pair of Daryl's underwear, sitting on her potty while perusing a copy of National Geographic ...that sort of thing... but then suddenly she was gone. I wasn't overly worried, as there were only so many things she could've been doing, but nonetheless I hollered out, "Margot? What are you doing?"
And thanks to this little blip we're living in wherein her great love for narrating everything she sees and does overrides any inclination to sidestep the issue at hand, she replied, "I'm eating lotion!"
And sure enough, I found her in her room, graciously returning the Aveeno bottle, little slobbery dispenser and all, back to its place on her change table.
Why, thank you so much for your honesty!
With Margot, though, I feel as though I'm stuck in this magically hilarious blip in time where yes, silence usually means she's up to no good, but she knows nothing yet about deceit - and to boot, she loves to talk.
So this morning, while I was toiling away at putting plastic up over our windows to keep the near-freezing outdoor temperatures from creeping into our house, there came a point where I realized I was too absorbed in what I was doing, and that Margot had disappeared. She'd been keeping me company up until that point, doing some doodling in Daryl's bedside notepad, using a little photograph as a telephone on which to call her Nana for a chat, trying on a pair of Daryl's underwear, sitting on her potty while perusing a copy of National Geographic ...that sort of thing... but then suddenly she was gone. I wasn't overly worried, as there were only so many things she could've been doing, but nonetheless I hollered out, "Margot? What are you doing?"
And thanks to this little blip we're living in wherein her great love for narrating everything she sees and does overrides any inclination to sidestep the issue at hand, she replied, "I'm eating lotion!"
And sure enough, I found her in her room, graciously returning the Aveeno bottle, little slobbery dispenser and all, back to its place on her change table.
Why, thank you so much for your honesty!
Sunday, November 2, 2014
Chaos and wild greatness
Sometimes I forget to eat and sometimes a load of laundry takes three days to process and usually I'm suppressing cuss words while I'm cleaning up messes and generally speaking I'm getting really good at putting a jacket on a moving subject and tying shoes onto kicky feet and in the last 12 months I've swept the floor probably more times than all the other times in my life combined.
The things that come out of my mouth most often are, "please stop throwing food on the floor" and "how do you ask?" and "what did I just tell you?" and "do not touch the computer" and "you sit on your bum if you're going to be in that chair" and "put the mustard back in the fridge" and countless other new me-isms but nothing do I tell my girl more often than, "I love you" and "I love you" and "I love you."
The days are long and the nights are just not long enough and the months and the weeks pass by at varying rates of speed but all of it, as it turns out, is just exactly my definition of perfect.
The things that come out of my mouth most often are, "please stop throwing food on the floor" and "how do you ask?" and "what did I just tell you?" and "do not touch the computer" and "you sit on your bum if you're going to be in that chair" and "put the mustard back in the fridge" and countless other new me-isms but nothing do I tell my girl more often than, "I love you" and "I love you" and "I love you."
The days are long and the nights are just not long enough and the months and the weeks pass by at varying rates of speed but all of it, as it turns out, is just exactly my definition of perfect.
Thursday, October 30, 2014
Sprouting little wings
If I haven't said it before, I'll say it now: not a day goes by that I don't acknowledge how grateful I am that Daryl and I have never had to send Margot off to daycare; how blessed we are that our employers give us enough freedom to stretch and bend our work schedules in order that she can spend her days at home with us instead of at a daycare facility. Our schedules are arranged in such a way that when one of us is at work, the other one is home with her; and in spite of how maddeningly frustrating it can be to operate this way when it means never having a day in the week where we're all together, it is, above all, a gift.
Cutting and pasting our work schedules, though, was obviously a direct result of bringing Margot into our lives; before she was born, my schedule was standard Monday-Friday, 9-5. So making all of this work meant putting my work hours on the chopping block - which, in turn, did the same thing to my paycheck. This isn't to say that we aren't making ends meet, but only to say that we've had to make adjustments where we can. And this past summer, after realizing our financial situation was altogether too uncomfortable (it's hard to say no to Chipotle) I decided to pick up an extra day at work. Well, this meant we were short on childcare one day a week; but by stroke of luck / divine blessing, everything worked out perfectly when Daryl's mom offered to come to our house every Wednesday to look after Margot. And as far as Margot is concerned, her Nana is one of the most magically wonderful people on the planet.
I digress, though. Nana works in the school system, so when the summer came to an end, so did our outsourced childcare services. Enter Marcia: one of my nearest and dearest and most beautifully talented and lovely friends (seriously, you guys: she's the mastermind behind t i b b e n l i t t l e s. You'll fall in love.) Marcia swooped in and offered to watch Margot when we needed her. And yesterday just happened to be the first day that we had to bring Margot over there.
I was nervous. Not because Marce didn't have every ounce of my faith and adoration, but because I didn't put enough stock in my own little girl. My mind kept reeling, thinking surely we'd drop her off and say goodbye, wrenching ourselves out of her little arms, while tears poured down her face and she begged us to stay, calling out our names in despair.
It sounds dramatic. I know. But it's where my mind went. I know if you're a parent, yours has probably gone there, too.
I spent a lot of Tuesday evening telling her and re-telling her what the next day was going to look like; that Dada was going to drop her off over there, where she'd get to play aaaallll daaaayyyy loooonnnngggg with her favorite friend Wendy. I told her she'd get to play games, ride on Wendy's rocking horse, maybe go to the park, and anything else I could think of that'd help her (me) feel pumped up about dropping her off at someone else's house and leaving for the day. This was totally new territory for me.
And as it turns out, obviously, Margot was fine. Better than fine! Daryl told me that she was more interested in Wendy's feet than she was in saying goodbye to him.
"Wendy feet! Bye-bye, Dada. Wendy feet!" (Poke, poke.)
I've had Margot's independence on my brain so much lately. When hanging out with our next-door neighbors last week as we sat around a fire in their backyard, they talked about how big and scary the world has started to feel now that their son is five and they've had to start teaching him how to operate in the world without them. They've had to teach him how to navigate getting home on the school bus, how to watch out for cars on the street, and make sure he knows his address and his parents' contact information, and a plethora of other such considerations that just don't exist while our kids are young enough to constantly remain under our care. It's all just so much. I drive past kids waiting for the bus before school on my way to work every morning and my brain instantly zaps to their parents, thinking about how each and every one of them managed to come to terms with sending their kids off into the world on their own. How much trust they've all mustered up and put into their kids - not because they want to, but because they have to. Because kids grow up. Because we can't cradle them in our arms forever.
But it's terrifying. It's overwhelming. And it just boggled my brain yesterday when, after we were all home and went for a walk to the park down the street, I was asking Daryl and Margot each about their days. Realizing how odd it was that the three of us had days and experiences independent from one another.
Because...what? When did Margot get so big? Did I not just give birth to her last week? How has she gotten old enough to have her own experiences outside of our house and outside of our care? It doesn't make sense to me. It's amazing and beautiful and completely bewildering watching her grow so quickly.
And so last night, there was no bigger sigh of relief than while I was giving her a bath, and asking her about her day, and she just kept yelling, "Wendy house! SO FUN!"
My girl, when did you become your own person with your own little ideas?
Cutting and pasting our work schedules, though, was obviously a direct result of bringing Margot into our lives; before she was born, my schedule was standard Monday-Friday, 9-5. So making all of this work meant putting my work hours on the chopping block - which, in turn, did the same thing to my paycheck. This isn't to say that we aren't making ends meet, but only to say that we've had to make adjustments where we can. And this past summer, after realizing our financial situation was altogether too uncomfortable (it's hard to say no to Chipotle) I decided to pick up an extra day at work. Well, this meant we were short on childcare one day a week; but by stroke of luck / divine blessing, everything worked out perfectly when Daryl's mom offered to come to our house every Wednesday to look after Margot. And as far as Margot is concerned, her Nana is one of the most magically wonderful people on the planet.
I digress, though. Nana works in the school system, so when the summer came to an end, so did our outsourced childcare services. Enter Marcia: one of my nearest and dearest and most beautifully talented and lovely friends (seriously, you guys: she's the mastermind behind t i b b e n l i t t l e s. You'll fall in love.) Marcia swooped in and offered to watch Margot when we needed her. And yesterday just happened to be the first day that we had to bring Margot over there.
I was nervous. Not because Marce didn't have every ounce of my faith and adoration, but because I didn't put enough stock in my own little girl. My mind kept reeling, thinking surely we'd drop her off and say goodbye, wrenching ourselves out of her little arms, while tears poured down her face and she begged us to stay, calling out our names in despair.
It sounds dramatic. I know. But it's where my mind went. I know if you're a parent, yours has probably gone there, too.
I spent a lot of Tuesday evening telling her and re-telling her what the next day was going to look like; that Dada was going to drop her off over there, where she'd get to play aaaallll daaaayyyy loooonnnngggg with her favorite friend Wendy. I told her she'd get to play games, ride on Wendy's rocking horse, maybe go to the park, and anything else I could think of that'd help her (me) feel pumped up about dropping her off at someone else's house and leaving for the day. This was totally new territory for me.
And as it turns out, obviously, Margot was fine. Better than fine! Daryl told me that she was more interested in Wendy's feet than she was in saying goodbye to him.
"Wendy feet! Bye-bye, Dada. Wendy feet!" (Poke, poke.)
I've had Margot's independence on my brain so much lately. When hanging out with our next-door neighbors last week as we sat around a fire in their backyard, they talked about how big and scary the world has started to feel now that their son is five and they've had to start teaching him how to operate in the world without them. They've had to teach him how to navigate getting home on the school bus, how to watch out for cars on the street, and make sure he knows his address and his parents' contact information, and a plethora of other such considerations that just don't exist while our kids are young enough to constantly remain under our care. It's all just so much. I drive past kids waiting for the bus before school on my way to work every morning and my brain instantly zaps to their parents, thinking about how each and every one of them managed to come to terms with sending their kids off into the world on their own. How much trust they've all mustered up and put into their kids - not because they want to, but because they have to. Because kids grow up. Because we can't cradle them in our arms forever.
But it's terrifying. It's overwhelming. And it just boggled my brain yesterday when, after we were all home and went for a walk to the park down the street, I was asking Daryl and Margot each about their days. Realizing how odd it was that the three of us had days and experiences independent from one another.
Because...what? When did Margot get so big? Did I not just give birth to her last week? How has she gotten old enough to have her own experiences outside of our house and outside of our care? It doesn't make sense to me. It's amazing and beautiful and completely bewildering watching her grow so quickly.
And so last night, there was no bigger sigh of relief than while I was giving her a bath, and asking her about her day, and she just kept yelling, "Wendy house! SO FUN!"
My girl, when did you become your own person with your own little ideas?
Tuesday, October 14, 2014
Love thyself.
It's hard to love yourself every day of the week. I know.
It's hard to accept that you're good enough, or present enough, or that you're lovely even if your jeans don't fit anymore. It's a tall order to consider that you're radiant no matter what your hair looks like or whether your sweater has spit-up on it and holes forming at the sleeves.
Growing up, I spent so long ripping pieces of myself apart. I think - I fear, I lament - that I only did this because I'm a girl being raised in the world, amidst warped ideas of beauty and skewed body image, in spite of the solid teaching I was given at home. I invested too much time thinking that my skin was too pale; that my arms were too hairy; that my thighs made me look like a hippopotamus; that I had man-hands and a boy's voice (I don't).
But tearing oneself down is exhausting. The energy that we can expend dreaming up and focusing on different faults or reasons why we're not good enough is just so tiring. It's gratuitous. It needs to stop.
I'm not saying that loving yourself comes easy, or that strong self-confidence is something inherent. It takes work. But more importantly, it takes a consideration that those people in your life who love you are onto something. It takes an intentional effort to hear what you're being told, and take it to heart.
The confidence that I have, which started from this tiny seed at the bottom of my heart and sprouted up and out and all over my body, exists because I've been taught well to love myself. I took the example of the handful of people who raised me up and held my hand and walked alongside me and reminded me time and again that I am wonderful.
I feel blessed in my life that I've had certain people love me so deeply, with such care and such intention that they instilled within me this tiny seed that grew up, up and away. They taught me, over a long string of years, that my pale skin is beautiful. That who gives two shits about your arm hair? That my thighs are beautiful and perfect just as they are. And that my hands are lovely and my voice is just my voice. My girl voice. And they taught me so much more than this - that I am loved in spite of any and every single flaw that I possess.
_____
When I started this blog some months ago, I did it as a means to reach out to other mothers. Women like me who are experiencing the gamut of emotions, being stretched in every which direction, nearly broken but still hanging on, and who might find themselves feeling isolated or alone.
And a couple months ago, I stripped off all my clothes and stood with my naked baby girl for the 4th Trimester Bodies Project as a way of taking a small step forward - or a big step, really - shouting from the rooftops, in my loudest voice, that we as mothers are strong, we are beautiful, and we are brave. It was the first step in a series of motions I took to liberate myself from my own cage. And to have sloughed off my clothes and those bars feels like the most freeing thing I've ever done.
I want Margot to learn to love herself. And I know that this starts right here. I want to love her all through her days and to lead by example and show her exactly how powerful she is. I want her to have a realistic understanding that beauty is everywhere, that beauty does not revolve around body size or shape, and that she can do whatever she wants to do and be whoever she chooses to be.
I want her to understand that her value is not determined by her beauty, but that regardless of what she looks like, or what changes her body goes through, that she's perfect just as she is.
What do you love about yourself? Are they the same things that I love about you? Do you take selfies on your phone when your kids are napping? I do too.
It's hard to accept that you're good enough, or present enough, or that you're lovely even if your jeans don't fit anymore. It's a tall order to consider that you're radiant no matter what your hair looks like or whether your sweater has spit-up on it and holes forming at the sleeves.
Growing up, I spent so long ripping pieces of myself apart. I think - I fear, I lament - that I only did this because I'm a girl being raised in the world, amidst warped ideas of beauty and skewed body image, in spite of the solid teaching I was given at home. I invested too much time thinking that my skin was too pale; that my arms were too hairy; that my thighs made me look like a hippopotamus; that I had man-hands and a boy's voice (I don't).
But tearing oneself down is exhausting. The energy that we can expend dreaming up and focusing on different faults or reasons why we're not good enough is just so tiring. It's gratuitous. It needs to stop.
I'm not saying that loving yourself comes easy, or that strong self-confidence is something inherent. It takes work. But more importantly, it takes a consideration that those people in your life who love you are onto something. It takes an intentional effort to hear what you're being told, and take it to heart.
The confidence that I have, which started from this tiny seed at the bottom of my heart and sprouted up and out and all over my body, exists because I've been taught well to love myself. I took the example of the handful of people who raised me up and held my hand and walked alongside me and reminded me time and again that I am wonderful.
I feel blessed in my life that I've had certain people love me so deeply, with such care and such intention that they instilled within me this tiny seed that grew up, up and away. They taught me, over a long string of years, that my pale skin is beautiful. That who gives two shits about your arm hair? That my thighs are beautiful and perfect just as they are. And that my hands are lovely and my voice is just my voice. My girl voice. And they taught me so much more than this - that I am loved in spite of any and every single flaw that I possess.
_____
When I started this blog some months ago, I did it as a means to reach out to other mothers. Women like me who are experiencing the gamut of emotions, being stretched in every which direction, nearly broken but still hanging on, and who might find themselves feeling isolated or alone.
And a couple months ago, I stripped off all my clothes and stood with my naked baby girl for the 4th Trimester Bodies Project as a way of taking a small step forward - or a big step, really - shouting from the rooftops, in my loudest voice, that we as mothers are strong, we are beautiful, and we are brave. It was the first step in a series of motions I took to liberate myself from my own cage. And to have sloughed off my clothes and those bars feels like the most freeing thing I've ever done.
I want Margot to learn to love herself. And I know that this starts right here. I want to love her all through her days and to lead by example and show her exactly how powerful she is. I want her to have a realistic understanding that beauty is everywhere, that beauty does not revolve around body size or shape, and that she can do whatever she wants to do and be whoever she chooses to be.
I want her to understand that her value is not determined by her beauty, but that regardless of what she looks like, or what changes her body goes through, that she's perfect just as she is.
What do you love about yourself? Are they the same things that I love about you? Do you take selfies on your phone when your kids are napping? I do too.
Saturday, October 11, 2014
Lifting you up, up, up when you're feeling down, down, down
If there’s one message I might walk the streets hollering out at the top of my lungs, it would probably have something to do with
reminding you that I’m okay, you’re okay, and that we’re gonna be okay. I’d
probably be fervently reminding you that if you’ve just had a new baby, or even
if it was kind of a while ago, those feelings you’re experiencing, and that
voice in the back of your head that’s taunting you to throw in the towel – they
will diminish and disappear. And while I can tell you with great certainty that
hours or days or weeks later they’ll resurface, they’ll always just be hills or
mountains that I know you can scale.
Because even though we’re all going through different things, as mothers, we’re also all walking down the same road.
Whether a mother chooses to have an umedicated birth or an elective c-section, whether
she endures episiotomy or vacuum or forceps, whether she births in a birth
center or hospital or at home unassisted, whether she chooses to formula-feed
or breastfeed exclusively, whether she opts for cloth diapers or disposables, or
whether she chooses to stay home full-time or foster her career; we are all
doing our absolute utmost to raise our babies and do exactly what’s right for
them and for us, all the while bending backwards until our spines nearly snap
in two.
Because no matter what path we're traveling, we’re all
hanging on by a thread.
The weight we bear as mothers, as we hold up our children,
our jobs, our partners and every other responsibility and relationship in our
lives is nearly too great to bear on any day and over the course of every day.
Motherhood is hard; and nobody gets through those early days
unscathed. Pregnancy, childbirth and parenthood are altogether rewarding,
exhilarating, exhausting, trying, demanding, and beautiful. But if you’re new
to this, if you’re on your knees, or if you’re barely scraping by, remember two
things: you are not alone, and there exists an army of women behind you who
support you and love you.
The things you’re feeling have been felt and endured by
scores of women before you. I am one of them. Whether you’re experiencing
postpartum depression or anxiety, or battling the overwhelmingly powerful
effects of postpartum hormones, remember that this too shall pass. It gets
better. It gets easier. Life has a way of priming us for greater challenges;
and if you reach out, ask for help, and make yourself vulnerable, I promise you
will feel the pull of that army lifting you up and out of that hole.
Sleep deprivation and postpartum hormones are a lethal combination
– but they’re one that we’ve all experienced, and continue to. So again, I say:
you are not alone. This will pass. And you are loved.
Friday, October 3, 2014
I love you, but you're creeping me out. But I love you. But you're creeping me out.
I have felt fiercely and intensely attached to Margot lately.
"Yes. Baby. Baby, mama. Baby gone."
It's really no wonder why, I know - I'm living through our days mourning the loss of her first sibling - and truly, overall, I'm okay. I really am okay. But I can't say it comes as a surprise that my heart is glomming on to this girl of mine at an exponential rate while I grieve.
I hadn't even really noticed until just recently, when I realized how frequently I flip through photos of her on my phone when I'm not around her. Whether I'm away from her at work, or whether I'm one floor beneath her while she's down for her afternoon nap, or whether I've put her to bed only a short time prior at the end of the day - it's only moments before I'm picking up my phone and looking at all the pictures I've taken of her in the recent past.
I ache with missing her while she's sleeping. While she's awake, we're usually attached to one another; either I'm holding her, or she's sitting on my lap, or nuzzling in the crook of my neck, or laughing and smiling her biggest smiles while my stomach hurts from laughing so hard. We're having amazing days together. I don't know whether to attribute these moments to a higher level of patience and love for her, or to some heightened sense of awareness that she's picked up in light of my grief. But whatever the reason, she is without a doubt pouring excess amounts of light into my life.
I took this picture of her this morning, while she was watching Daryl drive off to work, and waving goodbye to him, and I haven't been able to stop looking at it all day. I posted it on Facebook and on Instagram and I wish I had it posted on the inside of my eyelids so that I could stare at it incessantly. She's beautiful and charming and magic and I can't stop wondering how on earth I got this tiny human - how I got so lucky so as to have her to call my own - because she's just unspeakably amazing. I told her today that she's brought me to joy I didn't even know existed before I had her.
Something weird happened today, though. I almost don't want to write about it because it's surely going to make one of us sound like a looney tune; but at the risk of that, I'm regaling you with a story about the creepiest thing that happened to me all day. I have a serious love for creepy, but this was a little over the line.
"Baby gone. Baby. Baby. Baby gone. Baby gone."
I wish you all knew how well Margot speaks - because this story could easily be discredited on the assumption that she's just a tiny girl, with a limited vocabulary, and a garbled one at that; but for those of you who can attest, please stand with me here when I say that Margot has a truly exceptional talent with speech. If there's a word that you can say, she can say it. She started talking at 9 months old; and now, at almost 20 months, she's pretty easy to understand. So as I tell you this story, please take my word when I say there's no doubt as to whether I was misconstruing her words. She speaks clear as a bell.
"Baby gone."
We were running errands today, driving from Costco to the co-op in our neighborhood, and she was blabbering on in the backseat, as toddlers are wont to do, and I was paying her almost no attention, as mothers are [ashamedly] occasionally wont to do. I eventually started to pay her some mind, though, because, well, that kind of just naturally happens when a tiny little voice is repeating the same thing over and over three feet behind your head. So I asked her, "What, Margot? Baby gone?"
"Yes. Baby. Baby, mama. Baby gone."
Thinking nothing of it, I said, "Huh..? Baby? What baby?"
"Baby. Baby gone."
"The baby is gone? Where did the baby go?" Okay...I'd indulge her. I had no idea where this was going.
"Baby sick. Tired. Baby gone. Tired."
"Gone?" This was starting to get weird.
"Yes. Baby tired. Sick. Baby gone." She continued.
It got weird. I got creeped. I can't stress this enough: neither Daryl nor I have ever - EVER - talked to her about this loss. About this pregnancy, about a sibling, about miscarriage. She's also the youngest in the pack when it comes to our friend group; she doesn't have babies in her life. Now I'm not suggesting she's telepathic, or otherwise intuitive on some otherworldly level, but can I get an amen when I say that this creeped the crap out of me? No..? K maybe it's just me. But for the life of me I can't figure out what she was talking about. And it didn't end there. I decided to indulge her further.
"Margot, what baby? Was the baby a boy or a girl?"
"Girl."
"Pardon?"
"Girl."
Okay... whatever. I have no idea who she's talking about. She goes on for another minute or two, talking about this baby who was sick, and tired, and is now gone. I was still driving, still listening to the radio, but with some serious wheels grinding in the back of my head. Then, about five minutes later, after some silence, she says, "Baby come." And again. She's stuck on repeat.
"Baby come? Huh?" I said. What does that even mean? Does she even know the word "come"? Probably, but I have no idea.
"Yes. Baby come. Baby come."
"..........Is....a baby...coming?" I ask.
"Yes."
Okay. I'm not going to travel down some weird road here, but I also won't ignore the niggling feeling that she could be feeling a pull toward me just as strongly as the one I'm feeling toward her. Either that or she's the creepiest human being I've ever met.
Wednesday, October 1, 2014
Three to four to three
Being pregnant for only two months was a weird thing. It wasn't something I thought I'd have gone through; especially since I spent the first bit of it so busy toddler-wrangling that I often forgot that I was even pregnant at all. Now, though, it's the opposite. The sting feels most severe every time I forget that I'm not pregnant anymore. And when I remember, I get that sinking feeling in my stomach.
I remember that I don't have to haul out my maternity clothing anymore. Or worry about how I'll bend over Margot's crib every night with a growing belly getting in the way. I remind myself that there's no more immediate need to think about how to rearrange her room, or to daydream about what she's going to be like as a big sister. I remember that it's okay to do things like have a glass of wine with dinner, take a hot bath, or take some ibuprofen to subside my pounding headache that hasn't passed in over two days.
Pregnancy has a way about it - when I first found out, I was slammed with all kinds of feelings; and naturally, I mentally signed on for an ensuing 36 weeks, give or take, of a beautifully exciting and terrifying roller coaster ride of emotional and physical experiences. I signed on the dotted line and never expected anybody to rip that contract up. I was going to end up with a baby in the spring - so what's happening? Why am I so empty all of a sudden?
Upon realizing I was pregnant, though, coming to terms with the idea that I was going to go through pregnancy and childbirth and everything that goes along with that for a second time around, I faced feelings I was altogether not expecting to feel. For starters, we hadn't been actively trying for this baby. To say that it was a surprise isn't quite right, but unexpected - yes. Entirely.
I didn't totally know how to be happy. It's not that I wasn't overarchingly so, or that I didn't understand that this was a wholly amazing experience about to unfold before me, but I didn't fully grasp the concept of how to physically rejoice in knowing I was about to bring forth a new little baby into a household with a preexisting toddler in it.
As far as kids go, the idea of zero to one was, for me, fantastic. It was great. Sure, it was terrifying at more times than one, and overwhelming and crazy, but hey - there was a baby coming! We were going to have a baby! She'd sleep, she'd poop, she'd cry, and she'd make cute little garbled noises. And she'd be fun. It'd be good.
One to two, though, that's just bat shit crazy. How was I supposed to do that?! Are there services offered wherein we might outsource toddler A until we had a steady handle on baby B? I'm not suggesting this would have been a forever thing; five years max. But no, wait... I didn't want to do life without Margot in it every step of the way. And so where was this baby going to fit in to all this? I had heard a lot of times that women expecting their second child worry how on earth they'll find enough love in their hearts to measure up to how they feel about their firstborns - but my hesitation wasn't so much about the love quotient as it was about whether I wouldn't be so busy making sure Margot wasn't tossing cat poop around in the litter box that I wouldn't accidentally leave my new baby strapped safely in its car seat, sitting atop the roof of the car in our driveway, for reasons completely unbeknownst to me. And then when I'd realize, whether I'd yell out a half-hearted, well-meaning apology to the baby - "I'm so sorry, babe - I'll be back in an hour as soon as I can just get some of my shit together inside...Please don't take this personally..." And then figure this must be the precise moment and reason for which all children born after the Almighty Firstborn end up fending for themselves thanks to a mutual understanding that, yeah, if you want to eat lunch today you're just going to have to fix yourself your own sandwich. And also if you could take a series of selfies every now and again, I need some materials to toss into your baby book. Thanks. Oh and yeah by "baby book" I do mean a little Ziploc bag containing your dried-up bellybutton and somebody else's bandaid. ("OKAY WHO PUT THEIR BANDAID IN THE BABY'S KEEPSAKE BAGGIE?")
I felt like I was living in a very tangible moment of history. It almost felt more like history than like present, really; because it occurred to me that we would hardly remember the days that went by before our second baby joined our family; and might the memories one day fizzle out altogether? No - I wanted to make a concerted effort to keep them from disappearing.
And now that we're back to where we started, back with each other and no new little growing babe on our horizon, well, absorbing each blessing, every day and every shred of grace and love is a project I'm working on with all my heart, limbs and senses. This time we have with our sweet girl, this time we have as a family of three, is exactly perfect in spite of what we've lost. This is our meantime - our time that's passing no more quickly or slowly than it's meant to; and I'm taking in every breath with deep gratitude. The passing of our sweet second baby will never be lost on me; but I don't dare let that loss take away from the beautiful present that's unfolding before me at a dizzying rate.
Sunday, September 28, 2014
Eight weeks nine weeks no weeks
I never thought I'd be announcing a pregnancy this way. It just never occurred to me that at this stage I'd be talking about my second pregnancy as something that's already been and gone.
I didn't realize that the first time I'd blog about it I'd be reflecting on how I never got the chance to birth, meet, name, give life, or show love to my second baby.
When I went in for an early ultrasound at eight weeks pregnant, I expected one of two things: I'd either see a healthy, thriving baby, or that I'd be offered condolences; that they were sorry to be the bearers of bad news, but there's just no heartbeat to be found; that my baby had passed. I'm not entirely sure which outcome I was expecting, realistically, since I'd been spotting intermittently throughout the duration of my pregnancy, and I knew that even though I wasn't particularly losing sleep over it, that miscarriage would be a distinct possibility. Because at the same time, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this pregnancy was real. I felt it. I experienced all those familiar symptoms I had the first time around - the excessive fatigue and hunger, the mood swings, and those little uterine twinges that reminded me that a tiny human was coming into being within my body.
While lying on the table, though, with that cold goop on my abdomen and the ultrasound wand moving slowly across my lower belly, something in the back of my mind - or my heart - raised a red flag. There was my baby - albeit smaller than I expected it to be - but with a beating heart that just didn't seem quite up to par. The ultrasound technician didn't say anything, but when she timed the heartbeat, I knew something was wrong. She eventually stepped out, to go get the doctor on staff to come in for a consultation; and I waited in that dimly lit room for just long enough to know that their hushed discussion out in the hallway was probably focused more on how they were going to tell me than it was on what they were going to have to say.
I can only recount little blips of what the doctor told me - I think most of what he said washed away as his voice filled up the room and my ears, and eventually started to sound like white noise. "The baby is far too small for how far along you are - and its heart rate is very slow. You have a first OB appointment scheduled directly after this, I know," he said, "...but I'm going to recommend that you not bother going. We'll schedule another ultrasound a week from now, and if we don't see substantial progress, we'll know for certain that this baby isn't developing properly and we'll take matters from there." "I'm sorry this isn't good news," he continued, and asked if I had any questions. "No? Okay. We'll see you next week." Questions? I had a million of them. I had zero. I had a ringing and a buzzing filling my head and I needed to run away. I was thinking everything and nothing and everything and nothing. I was numb and I was exploding.
The days that followed, though, became torturous. I clambered back up that muddy slope, desperately trying to cling on to every shred of hope and every minute possibility that my baby would be okay - that we'd all somehow miscalculated the dates - that the baby wasn't meant to be any bigger yet or that its heart wasn't quite ripe enough to be beating any faster. I calculated dates, I obsessed, I grasped at straws - and I implored the universe to speed up time and yet somehow slow it all down to a dead stop. I didn't know how to make it through an entire week not knowing what was happening - but never in my life had I so desperately wished for a day to come as I had simultaneously wished I could stop time so as to keep it from ever ever ever arriving.
My fear was fighting so strongly against my desire and I so deeply longed for and loathed Thursday, September 25, 2014. Waiting for that day to come was a torture form that I was anxious to be rid of; because I felt that if this book was going to close, I wanted it closed now. No more limbo. Please.
And when the day came, and I laid down on the table for that follow-up ultrasound, and saw my tiny, lifeless baby on that screen, it was like something in me finally felt free to exhale. Like the torture I'd been feeling all week prior wasn't so much associated with the impending loss as it was with the utter uncertainty that existed surrounding the whole thing. I had grieved, I had celebrated, I had prayed, I had begged, and I had hoped - and then finally, at long last, I was able to breathe. A little shallower, albeit, and through tears, but it surprised me that I ended up feeling more relief than anything else. At last I knew.
___________________
So I lost my second child. At nine weeks gestation, that little baby let go. I'll never know why, and I'll never understand, but I'm doing my utmost to trust that my body was in control.
My body now, though, is suffering those pains of loss. The surgery I just came out of, the aftermath, the medication, the sleepless nights, and the residual grief are all my very-real and very-present now. My body aches, it hurts, it groans. And I'm tired of being tired.
I know I have a long way to go with regard to figuring all this out for myself - I hope I actually manage to do it someday - but in the meantime, I'm walking along with this heavy heart of mine, doing my utmost to rise up and out of this great sadness I'm carrying over the loss of my little babe.
I didn't realize that the first time I'd blog about it I'd be reflecting on how I never got the chance to birth, meet, name, give life, or show love to my second baby.
When I went in for an early ultrasound at eight weeks pregnant, I expected one of two things: I'd either see a healthy, thriving baby, or that I'd be offered condolences; that they were sorry to be the bearers of bad news, but there's just no heartbeat to be found; that my baby had passed. I'm not entirely sure which outcome I was expecting, realistically, since I'd been spotting intermittently throughout the duration of my pregnancy, and I knew that even though I wasn't particularly losing sleep over it, that miscarriage would be a distinct possibility. Because at the same time, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that this pregnancy was real. I felt it. I experienced all those familiar symptoms I had the first time around - the excessive fatigue and hunger, the mood swings, and those little uterine twinges that reminded me that a tiny human was coming into being within my body.
While lying on the table, though, with that cold goop on my abdomen and the ultrasound wand moving slowly across my lower belly, something in the back of my mind - or my heart - raised a red flag. There was my baby - albeit smaller than I expected it to be - but with a beating heart that just didn't seem quite up to par. The ultrasound technician didn't say anything, but when she timed the heartbeat, I knew something was wrong. She eventually stepped out, to go get the doctor on staff to come in for a consultation; and I waited in that dimly lit room for just long enough to know that their hushed discussion out in the hallway was probably focused more on how they were going to tell me than it was on what they were going to have to say.
I can only recount little blips of what the doctor told me - I think most of what he said washed away as his voice filled up the room and my ears, and eventually started to sound like white noise. "The baby is far too small for how far along you are - and its heart rate is very slow. You have a first OB appointment scheduled directly after this, I know," he said, "...but I'm going to recommend that you not bother going. We'll schedule another ultrasound a week from now, and if we don't see substantial progress, we'll know for certain that this baby isn't developing properly and we'll take matters from there." "I'm sorry this isn't good news," he continued, and asked if I had any questions. "No? Okay. We'll see you next week." Questions? I had a million of them. I had zero. I had a ringing and a buzzing filling my head and I needed to run away. I was thinking everything and nothing and everything and nothing. I was numb and I was exploding.
That day became a day of mourning. I cried harder than I've cried in a long time. I cried until I had a splitting headache, and I cried until I just couldn't anymore.
I tossed and turned that night, and somehow woke up the next day feeling less attached. It became a day of holding on, loosening my grip, letting go, and then questioning everything I was feeling. Did I still feel pregnant, from an emotional standpoint? No. I must have let those feelings slip away. But physically, did I? I couldn't tell. Was my baby's heart still beating? I had no idea. Would it still be beating the following week, when I laid back down for another ultrasound? Your guess was as good as mine - though I hastened to believe that it would be.
My fear was fighting so strongly against my desire and I so deeply longed for and loathed Thursday, September 25, 2014. Waiting for that day to come was a torture form that I was anxious to be rid of; because I felt that if this book was going to close, I wanted it closed now. No more limbo. Please.
And when the day came, and I laid down on the table for that follow-up ultrasound, and saw my tiny, lifeless baby on that screen, it was like something in me finally felt free to exhale. Like the torture I'd been feeling all week prior wasn't so much associated with the impending loss as it was with the utter uncertainty that existed surrounding the whole thing. I had grieved, I had celebrated, I had prayed, I had begged, and I had hoped - and then finally, at long last, I was able to breathe. A little shallower, albeit, and through tears, but it surprised me that I ended up feeling more relief than anything else. At last I knew.
___________________
So I lost my second child. At nine weeks gestation, that little baby let go. I'll never know why, and I'll never understand, but I'm doing my utmost to trust that my body was in control.
My body now, though, is suffering those pains of loss. The surgery I just came out of, the aftermath, the medication, the sleepless nights, and the residual grief are all my very-real and very-present now. My body aches, it hurts, it groans. And I'm tired of being tired.
I know I have a long way to go with regard to figuring all this out for myself - I hope I actually manage to do it someday - but in the meantime, I'm walking along with this heavy heart of mine, doing my utmost to rise up and out of this great sadness I'm carrying over the loss of my little babe.
Saturday, September 13, 2014
Motherhood is electric.
Never have I felt so alive as I have since becoming a parent.
What is it about motherhood that makes us feel equal parts deflated, sleep-deprived and haggard and yet somehow compels us to rise up every day, put one foot in front of the other, and greet these tiny beings with the same overwhelming feelings of love that we had the moment we met them for the first time? It's amazing, and yet it's no wonder, that a job so exhausting and fulfilling has the ability to stretch us in every which direction, and at the same time manages to leave us feeling as though we're overflowing with a love so strong it nearly knocks us over.
With childbirth, it's like the pain and struggle is proportionate to the subsequent joy, love and elation. With parenting, though, it's as though the pain and the joy battle to the death and each one simultaneously overrides the other until you're sure you can't handle another ounce of either and yet every fiber of your being cries out for more.
To me, being someone's mother seems akin to living without skin on. Like there's no protective layer - and everything feels electric and buzzing. Every feeling somehow bombards my senses and hits me square in the chest - but to the power of ten. Or a thousand, maybe.
Before I became a mother, there were days, weeks and entire months of my life that passed by in which I couldn't be bothered to feel much of anything at all; and yet somehow where I once waded through my days, I'm now scrounging to make it through excruciating minutes and hours - or I'm overtaken by such an intense level of joy I hardly know how I existed through all that time leading up to the moment in which I became a mother.
I'm not insinuating that if you don't have children you haven't lived, or that if you do, your life is somehow more fulfilling - I'm only saying that for me, my life - my me - began after giving birth. Although my identity does not remotely revolve around my daughter, nor does it revolve around motherhood, motherhood itself opened me up and shook awake the parts of me that were asleep for years, passed out and splayed on the floor. There exists meaning where none was before; I find purpose where before I had none; and I've somehow become a deeper, stronger more empowered version of myself.
The demands that motherhood places on us are staggering. Even on the best days, it's hard not to look at the bigger picture and wonder how we're going to make it through every trial, every struggle, every lesson and every period of hardship; especially when we find ourselves on the cusp of a[nother] emotional or mental breakdown.
But the magical, mysterious element to parenthood is how quickly and seamlessly our worries can be erased. It's cliche, I know. I just can't seem to spin the idea in any other way than to say that a kiss from my girl, or hearing her laugh, or feeling her blow a drooly, giggly raspberry into the crook of my neck is enough to erase every terrified and overwhelmed feeling I've ever felt. Without question, without reservation, without hesitation - her love for me swallows me whole and holds me tightly in the palm of her tiny little hand.
I am bowled over, I am scooped up and I am cradled by feelings equally paralyzing as they are comforting, compelling and captivating. And with great certainty, I know I am blessed beyond measure.
What is it about motherhood that makes us feel equal parts deflated, sleep-deprived and haggard and yet somehow compels us to rise up every day, put one foot in front of the other, and greet these tiny beings with the same overwhelming feelings of love that we had the moment we met them for the first time? It's amazing, and yet it's no wonder, that a job so exhausting and fulfilling has the ability to stretch us in every which direction, and at the same time manages to leave us feeling as though we're overflowing with a love so strong it nearly knocks us over.
To me, being someone's mother seems akin to living without skin on. Like there's no protective layer - and everything feels electric and buzzing. Every feeling somehow bombards my senses and hits me square in the chest - but to the power of ten. Or a thousand, maybe.
Before I became a mother, there were days, weeks and entire months of my life that passed by in which I couldn't be bothered to feel much of anything at all; and yet somehow where I once waded through my days, I'm now scrounging to make it through excruciating minutes and hours - or I'm overtaken by such an intense level of joy I hardly know how I existed through all that time leading up to the moment in which I became a mother.
I'm not insinuating that if you don't have children you haven't lived, or that if you do, your life is somehow more fulfilling - I'm only saying that for me, my life - my me - began after giving birth. Although my identity does not remotely revolve around my daughter, nor does it revolve around motherhood, motherhood itself opened me up and shook awake the parts of me that were asleep for years, passed out and splayed on the floor. There exists meaning where none was before; I find purpose where before I had none; and I've somehow become a deeper, stronger more empowered version of myself.
The demands that motherhood places on us are staggering. Even on the best days, it's hard not to look at the bigger picture and wonder how we're going to make it through every trial, every struggle, every lesson and every period of hardship; especially when we find ourselves on the cusp of a[nother] emotional or mental breakdown.
But the magical, mysterious element to parenthood is how quickly and seamlessly our worries can be erased. It's cliche, I know. I just can't seem to spin the idea in any other way than to say that a kiss from my girl, or hearing her laugh, or feeling her blow a drooly, giggly raspberry into the crook of my neck is enough to erase every terrified and overwhelmed feeling I've ever felt. Without question, without reservation, without hesitation - her love for me swallows me whole and holds me tightly in the palm of her tiny little hand.
I am bowled over, I am scooped up and I am cradled by feelings equally paralyzing as they are comforting, compelling and captivating. And with great certainty, I know I am blessed beyond measure.
Monday, September 1, 2014
Today sucks and I am complaining.
As I write this, there's a little storm cloud hovering above my head; I'm sitting on a chair in my dining room gorging on chocolate peanut butter ice cream and effectively nursing a throbbing wound in a self-serving pity party. There's no question whatsoever as to whether I'm being dramatic, here - I am - but I'm on Day Four (going on Day Five) of single-parenting while Daryl's demanding work schedule requires him to spend nearly all waking hours away from home and the only time we're spending together are those quiet hours where we're fast asleep with drool running down our cheeks. Either that or we're conversing for fifteen seconds over which one of us should be on Margot duty since she's just woken up and is calling out for someone to hold her, and I make a point of taking every chance I get to lie in bed while someone else takes care of her.
But I digress. The amount of whining and crying and screaming I've weathered from one tiny human who stands, like, two feet tall has been far more than I can handle today. She was being a royal turd at home all morning, so I decided we needed to get out of the house so that she could be a royal turd somewhere else for a little while. I don't know whether she's working on a new tooth or going through a developmental leap or whether she's tired or gassy or what her deal is - and might I take this opportunity to implore the good Lord as to why he didn't equip babies and toddlers with some sort of adequate signage? - but at any rate, we were fresh out of Chill Pills in this house, so we went out.
And it was worth our while! I have to confess something, actually. It's something I feel weird saying, because this is entirely out of character for me, but I'm saying it anyhow: I went shopping. I bought clothes. Now for those of you who know me well, I absolutely loathe shopping. I can't stand it. My eyes glaze over when I stare at racks upon racks of clothing and over my dead body am I up for trying any of it on. Which is why Daryl, my husband, and Ashley, my middle little sister, are my saving graces and my personal shoppers - once every year or so, one or both of them has the opportunity to drag me through a few stores, grab stuff off the rack, and go, "Here. Try this on." And I obey, I fall in love with a few basics (I mean, serious basics. My wardrobe consists of jeans, t-shirts, tank tops and hoodies. I don't do "nice" well.), and we move on. Then I wear those pieces until they're full of rips and holes, and we start again.
So today I mysteriously for some reason took myself shopping at Target. We had just been there yesterday, as it happens (uh... I go there a lot), and I had walked past some really great stuff and I remembered how much I like Target's clothing. I usually buy all my clothes at H&M or American Eagle or Joe Fresh (if I'm lucky to be back in Canada!), so Target is never really on my radar. But today, because I was so at my limit and all my patience had dripped out my ears a few days ago, I went, and I tried on, and I bought. Only three things, I should say, so for me that's going crazy but probably not for you, but I felt better! Imagine that! I understood for the first time that feeling that people get when they need to shop out their frustrations.
Today just sucks, though. I swear I'm going to work on my attitude as soon as I'm finished writing this post, but I'm just so tired. Yesterday was a remarkably hot day considering how relatively mild this summer has been, and for some reason I thought Margot's nap time would be the perfect time to mow all the grass on our property. It took an hour, and by the end I was drenched in sweat, and I got a blister on the back of each of my heels and one on my hand, and today all my muscles hurt. And I'm tired and there's still laundry to do and dishes to wash and junk to put away and vacuuming to do and I think I've already swept the floors in this house 14 times today but I'm still stepping on crumbs and dirt and why isn't sock & slipper season here yet and I know that this is a run-on sentence and that it's just gratuitous complaining but it's my blog and I can complain about stupid stuff if I want to, right?
But why do toddlers have to be so hard? I mean, really - WHY do they have to be SO HARD? I should try keeping a tally of the number of times in a day I repeat myself saying, "Margot, don't touch that." "Margot, what did I tell you? Don't touch." "Miss Margot James. I have asked you nicely. You know that's a no-no. Do not touch that!" Then inevitably, "MARGOT. DON'T. TOUCH." And my voice comes out of my mouth sounding like Zuul's (please tell me you've seen Ghostbusters and you know what I'm talking about here).
Parenting involves so much push and pull and there are days where every limb is being stretched in a different direction and today just happens to be one of those days where the demands of motherhood and marriage and keeping a home from accidentally imploding became so great that I sent Daryl a text so long that it probably took him an hour and a half to read in full, in which I said something at least once about wanting to kill everyone I know. (I did say I was feeling dramatic today, didn't I?) I think I need a hot bath and a bottle of wine with a bendy straw.
Image source: Google Images
But I digress. The amount of whining and crying and screaming I've weathered from one tiny human who stands, like, two feet tall has been far more than I can handle today. She was being a royal turd at home all morning, so I decided we needed to get out of the house so that she could be a royal turd somewhere else for a little while. I don't know whether she's working on a new tooth or going through a developmental leap or whether she's tired or gassy or what her deal is - and might I take this opportunity to implore the good Lord as to why he didn't equip babies and toddlers with some sort of adequate signage? - but at any rate, we were fresh out of Chill Pills in this house, so we went out.
And it was worth our while! I have to confess something, actually. It's something I feel weird saying, because this is entirely out of character for me, but I'm saying it anyhow: I went shopping. I bought clothes. Now for those of you who know me well, I absolutely loathe shopping. I can't stand it. My eyes glaze over when I stare at racks upon racks of clothing and over my dead body am I up for trying any of it on. Which is why Daryl, my husband, and Ashley, my middle little sister, are my saving graces and my personal shoppers - once every year or so, one or both of them has the opportunity to drag me through a few stores, grab stuff off the rack, and go, "Here. Try this on." And I obey, I fall in love with a few basics (I mean, serious basics. My wardrobe consists of jeans, t-shirts, tank tops and hoodies. I don't do "nice" well.), and we move on. Then I wear those pieces until they're full of rips and holes, and we start again.
So today I mysteriously for some reason took myself shopping at Target. We had just been there yesterday, as it happens (uh... I go there a lot), and I had walked past some really great stuff and I remembered how much I like Target's clothing. I usually buy all my clothes at H&M or American Eagle or Joe Fresh (if I'm lucky to be back in Canada!), so Target is never really on my radar. But today, because I was so at my limit and all my patience had dripped out my ears a few days ago, I went, and I tried on, and I bought. Only three things, I should say, so for me that's going crazy but probably not for you, but I felt better! Imagine that! I understood for the first time that feeling that people get when they need to shop out their frustrations.
Today just sucks, though. I swear I'm going to work on my attitude as soon as I'm finished writing this post, but I'm just so tired. Yesterday was a remarkably hot day considering how relatively mild this summer has been, and for some reason I thought Margot's nap time would be the perfect time to mow all the grass on our property. It took an hour, and by the end I was drenched in sweat, and I got a blister on the back of each of my heels and one on my hand, and today all my muscles hurt. And I'm tired and there's still laundry to do and dishes to wash and junk to put away and vacuuming to do and I think I've already swept the floors in this house 14 times today but I'm still stepping on crumbs and dirt and why isn't sock & slipper season here yet and I know that this is a run-on sentence and that it's just gratuitous complaining but it's my blog and I can complain about stupid stuff if I want to, right?
But why do toddlers have to be so hard? I mean, really - WHY do they have to be SO HARD? I should try keeping a tally of the number of times in a day I repeat myself saying, "Margot, don't touch that." "Margot, what did I tell you? Don't touch." "Miss Margot James. I have asked you nicely. You know that's a no-no. Do not touch that!" Then inevitably, "MARGOT. DON'T. TOUCH." And my voice comes out of my mouth sounding like Zuul's (please tell me you've seen Ghostbusters and you know what I'm talking about here).
Parenting involves so much push and pull and there are days where every limb is being stretched in a different direction and today just happens to be one of those days where the demands of motherhood and marriage and keeping a home from accidentally imploding became so great that I sent Daryl a text so long that it probably took him an hour and a half to read in full, in which I said something at least once about wanting to kill everyone I know. (I did say I was feeling dramatic today, didn't I?) I think I need a hot bath and a bottle of wine with a bendy straw.
Saturday, August 30, 2014
Enough is enough and we are enough.
For those of you who don’t know – and I think it’s safe to
say that nearly all of you do, since I posted and linked to a picture of myself stripped down to nearly nothing – last month I was a participant in Ashlee Wells Jackson’s 4th Trimester Bodies Project. I was one of hundreds of women who were lucky enough
to snag a spot in a very illustrious project; the market was very unforgiving,
as hundreds if not thousands of women vie for a slot in each city this project
visits, and only a couple dozen people get in; and it just so happens that I
was one of them. Make no mistake, though; I wasn’t chosen – I just happened to
be a quick clicker who moved swiftly through the registration process online.
My timing was right, and so I got in. That’s all there was to it.
I waited with great anticipation for my photo shoot to come,
and when it came, there wasn’t a second that went by that didn’t live up to or exceed my
expectations; while the skilled and stunning Laura Weetzie Wilson worked on my
hair and makeup to make me look and feel beautiful, Ashlee made her hard work
look effortless as she prepared my heart and my surroundings for what was
unquestionably a defining experience in my life. Sitting with the
two of them in a small hotel suite in downtown Minneapolis cracked me open –
it broke my shell and called forth a wave of words, of emotions and tears as I
talked earnestly about my experience with conception, pregnancy, childbirth and
motherhood; and all the while that I spoke, I was gifted the opportunity to
listen; to commiserate, to empathize, to ask questions, to laugh, to feel loved
and understood and as though I was part of a greater whole. And indeed, whether
or not I had ever had the chance to meet and sit with Ashlee and be
photographed by her, I knew and I know that my place in all this is no more
valuable than any other woman who’s conceived, birthed or raised a baby. We all
share a common bond, and I believe it’s of utmost importance that we remember
to acknowledge this.
_____
Those of us who’ve participated in the project are all part of a private group on Facebook, meant to support, uplift and surround one
another; it’s a place where each and any of us can ask questions, air
grievances, or offer words of advice or encouragement within a community of
others who share one or many common experiences – the least of which being our
involvement in this project; and I’ve so loved being a part of it. Except these
women, who’ve come together to collectively build this strong, beautiful and
powerful empire were divided yesterday when some were notified of being chosen
to be featured in Volume I of the book series, and the rest became deflated
upon realizing that they weren’t. And the group page kind of …erupted. There
was joy, surprise, and elation, and then there was – understandably – great
disappointment. Many of the women who aren’t being published in the upcoming first
volume seem to have felt cheated; a number of people didn’t realize being published wasn’t a
given right, others questioned whether their photos or stories were
sub-par, and others yet just forgot to celebrate the incredible news that a
book is being published (A book! Is being published!) – that Ashlee’s hard work
and dedication is coming to fruition in a bound book that we can hold in our
hands! – because they swept any notion of celebration aside in order to air
their great disappointment. Women were openly upset, and even wondered whether
their bodies weren’t scarred, striped or stretched enough to have warranted a
spot.
And I had to look away. I had to close my computer and get
up and walk away because the explosion of fiery estrogen was almost
palpable, spewing off that page. Whereas I usually enjoy reading what everyone
has to say and seeing swooping wings of support envelop the women in this
group, the advent of a rising-up of those who were vs. those who were not
chosen in this group – whether unintentional or not – suddenly became just way
too much.
There are 150 women whose photographs and stories are being
featured in this book, plus Ashlee’s herself, and it so happens that I am one
of them. When I agreed to participate in this project, it was made clear to me
that while there was a chance I’d make it into a book, it was certainly not a
guarantee; and by no means whatsoever did that possibility or eventuality
define my reasons for choosing to get involved. I loved the idea, and I so
hoped that my story would one day make it into print and garner a greater scope
of reach, but this was not remotely why
I got involved. When I was notified of my having been chosen, I was elated; I
was completely without words. I’m honored to have been picked, and I’m
constantly in awe of Ashlee and her vision and her work; but being published is nothing more than one
more blessing piled on top of the mountain of gifts I’ve been given by even just sitting in a room with
this woman. To have sat with her, been smiled at by her, and looked square in
her eyes is to have been blessed by her.
And so to think that there are women in this collective –
women who’ve also had this pleasure – who put such a defining line down the
center of being on a page in a book felt so incredibly dismaying. Every single
one of us are featured in a growing online gallery – our photos and our stories
have been shared already on numerous platforms, and have yet to be featured in
various touring galleries, and in all sorts of other collections in articles,
reports and other social media pieces – so to suggest that any one of us who didn’t
make it into a published volume is not good enough, not stretched or scarred
enough, not interesting enough or not powerful enough is ludicrous – it’s
discouraging, it’s disheartening, and it’s fundamentally untrue.
It’s time to take two steps back and marvel not only at the
magnitude of Ashlee’s work and her footprint, but at the breathtaking beauty of
each and every woman featured in this great project. If not for the 4th
Trimester Bodies Project, how many of us would still be looking at our wrinkly,
stretched tummies, our caesarian scars or our saggy breasts and thinking
they’re less-than? How many of us would not have realized what an honor and a
blessing this scarred, stretchy skin is? To realize the power of the female body
is to acknowledge just how intrinsically beautiful we all are. It’s only in
participating in this project that we’re given a platform from which to communicate our hearts and our experiences and our exhilaration and our love. Each and
every one of us is brave, is powerful, is a beautiful pillar of strength for
countless women all over the world. We should be nothing but gratified at
having been granted the opportunity to strip down to our skin and hold our
sweet naked babes close to our bodies while love radiated out of us in every
single direction.
Each woman – each photograph – offers its viewers an
outstretched hand of hope and inspiration; each one is a message that we as
women are beautiful at our deepest core: our hearts.
So please; I implore you – marvel at these women. These
photographs. These pillars of beauty and strength. And know that you, as a
woman and a mother, are every bit as powerful. Your wives, your sisters, and
your mothers. We are all this, at our
very foundation.
Friday, August 29, 2014
Working toward normalizing breastfeeding
Margot and I are alone today while Daryl's at work, and we had a really lovely morning together before the shit hit the fan and she spent nearly the entirety of lunchtime bawling her face off because her yogurt was all gone. Nevermind, though, because I totally understand. Sometimes I'm known to scream and cry and let boogers and tears run down my face for half an hour when I finish my ice cream. I get it.
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We went for a walk through the woods, and talked about bugs and green beans (her choice). And when we got home, I got to nurse her on two separate occasions - both of which came highly out of the ordinary since lately I only seem to breastfeed her before bed and in the middle of the night. But she asked, and I was happy to oblige, because is there anything more lovely than looking down into these eyes? For me, today, there is not.
Do I take too many breastfeeding selfies? Not as far as I'm concerned. But do I wish I cared less what other people thought? Yes. I'm working on it, though. 'Tis my mission with this blog; to overcome my insatiable desire to do what others think is best. Really, though, it's not that I care so much about what other people think as it is that I so fervently don't want to offend anybody. I'm a firstborn; I'm hard-wired to feel this way. I understand this quality within myself as much as I am annoyed by it.
But I am ashamed to admit that Facebook feels particularly scary today, with regard to sharing this post; I don't totally know why. But my circle of followers is far wider, and vastly more conservative than those on my other social media platforms.
A little voice in my head reminds me that this is not my finest effort at normalizing breastfeeding or uncensoring motherhood, but I'm trying to combat it with the knowledge that I'm taking my baby steps every day - and that for the record, they don't feel like baby steps at all. They feel like giant leaps off cliffs.
So... sorrynotsorry I'm flashing you my boob again.
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We went for a walk through the woods, and talked about bugs and green beans (her choice). And when we got home, I got to nurse her on two separate occasions - both of which came highly out of the ordinary since lately I only seem to breastfeed her before bed and in the middle of the night. But she asked, and I was happy to oblige, because is there anything more lovely than looking down into these eyes? For me, today, there is not.
Do I take too many breastfeeding selfies? Not as far as I'm concerned. But do I wish I cared less what other people thought? Yes. I'm working on it, though. 'Tis my mission with this blog; to overcome my insatiable desire to do what others think is best. Really, though, it's not that I care so much about what other people think as it is that I so fervently don't want to offend anybody. I'm a firstborn; I'm hard-wired to feel this way. I understand this quality within myself as much as I am annoyed by it.
But I am ashamed to admit that Facebook feels particularly scary today, with regard to sharing this post; I don't totally know why. But my circle of followers is far wider, and vastly more conservative than those on my other social media platforms.
A little voice in my head reminds me that this is not my finest effort at normalizing breastfeeding or uncensoring motherhood, but I'm trying to combat it with the knowledge that I'm taking my baby steps every day - and that for the record, they don't feel like baby steps at all. They feel like giant leaps off cliffs.
So... sorrynotsorry I'm flashing you my boob again.
Wednesday, August 27, 2014
In case you're feeling whisked away by the current.
When will we stop comparing our children to others, or measuring them up against something we were told or something we read online? I know it's nearly impossible to disregard it when your child seems to be falling behind the pack; if they're all gums while your friends' kids have teeth, or when their first birthday has passed and they haven't taken a single step yet, or when they should be saying 20 words and they're only saying three with any certainty whatsoever. It's hard not to feel less than, or as though you must not be doing something right - that maybe you're not investing enough time, maybe you're letting them watch too much TV just so that you can make dinner or unload the dishwasher or take two weeks' worth of trash to the end of the driveway - but it needs to be said that you are good enough. You are more than enough, in fact. You as a parent offer your children everything they need, and I guarantee they do not care whether you're still in your pyjamas at 4 o'clock or that the fridge needs to be cleaned out before some of those tupperware containers grow fangs and bite you.
I just don't think we as parents are apt to give ourselves quite enough credit; or to remember that our babies are developing at their own rate, regardless of what skills come before others. Their brains are constantly working, growing and changing; and I know I'm one of many to sit there and pore over what might possibly be coming next, because Margot wasn't rolling on time, sitting up, or walking before any of the other babies her age.
The thing is, though, it's imperative that we not get wrapped up in what we think our kids should be doing while we worry over all the things that they're not doing. Remember what a miracle your child is - and how fascinating it is to watch them grow and develop, regardless of what's happening with other kids their age. Remember that you're floating in a magic learning bubble right alongside them. And remember that at your most exasperated, when your baby or your toddler has been acting at their absolute worst, not sleeping, not listening, and throwing fits left and right, it's not unlikely that their brains are going through a major developmental leap. Being a baby is HARD, am I right?! Give that kid some slack.
I don't think any of us are alone in admitting that when a point in time passes by and a particular milestone hasn't been hit, we're suddenly investing all our power into willing our children to hit another stage of development via telekinesis. It so happens that my daughter didn't take her first unassisted steps until she was 16 months old - but I knew why: she was busy mastering language. I'm not exaggerating when I say she was able to count to 10 in English and French before she was walking. And yet... within the past few weeks alone I've witnessed her stick a thermometer into a tower fan (and walk around with its tiny battery in her mouth, unbeknownst to me until she spat it out), toss her shoes in the garbage, because "garbage!", and eat a crayon while saying, "Mmmmm! Yum!" She's a toddler. She doesn't listen, she throws tantrums, she plays with the cat food when I'm not looking, and last night she pooped in the tub. And it's all okay. I'm okay, she's okay.
Your baby is not my baby, and my baby is not somebody else's baby. Trust yourself and your instincts, and remember that that sweet little baby of yours is developing at his or her own rate, and you need not feel intimidated by what's going on outside of your bubble. Especially if you're busy cleaning up poop from inside it. I know all about it.
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