Jealousy and freedom and drinking during the day

This week has felt overwhelmingly like this. 

I'm on the upswing at this point, but I was on my period at the same time that Margot got a cold and thus stopped sleeping - so I wasn't sleeping - and what might have otherwise just been a routine string of crappy daily situations somehow morphed into the perfect storm of me feeling overdramatic, whiny, bitchy, and short-tempered. Lucky for Daryl, though, partway through the week I did actually realize what a turd I was being, and apologized. "I'm sorry," I said. "I'm just having a really shitty life." (Overdramatic. I told you. There's an Ebola outbreak and the Israel-Palestine conflict is so horrible it's too great a weight to bear and I'm complaining that my life sucks because there's a toddler chucking little pieces of spaghetti all over the dining room and I don't know what I want to eat for dinner because nothing sounds appetizing. REALLY? REALLY.)

But as I was saying - I'm over the hill and picking up my pieces. I've decided to make a change in my life. I have this one great friend who's said how remarkable she finds it that I possess this ability to make a sweeping permanent change when I decide on some way in which I want to change my life or otherwise strive for any particular goal. I had never realized this about myself whatsoever, but there was something incredibly empowering about having someone point this out to me. And so, here I'm going - I'm taking life by the horns (the horns? The tail? What's the expression again?) and putting an end to my lethargic nature. 

Last night I registered to attend the upcoming Birth Without Fear meet-up in Minneapolis. I realized shortly thereafter that this conference, this opportunity for me to spend a day out of the house sans toddler, will be the first time I've ever done anything of the sort since having Margot. I'm not saying I've never had a sliver of me-time in the last year and a half, but realistically I am saying that I've never done anything more than slip out of the house for a couple hours after she's gone to bed at night, or run out to get my hair cut, or zip out to rob a bank real quick... that sort of thing. I'm always back in time to nurse my girl, feed her a meal, take her to go grab groceries, or whatever's left on the day's agenda - the only times I've ever spent an entire day away from her are when I go to work. It's embarrassing admitting this - but it's also incredibly freeing realizing that next Saturday I'm totally going to be doing cartwheels out of my house while wearing a dress with poofy sleeves. And I'll obviously have lipstick painted all over my face. If you hear shrill, maniacal laughter, don't freak out. It's just me on the loose.

I should have prefaced all that with an explanation as to why I'm always stuck at home with our girl. I think I've written already about how Daryl and I made the decision pre-baby to adjust our work schedules so that we wouldn't have to rely on daycare services in order to juggle careers and child-rearing. We're both incredibly lucky to have jobs that allow us to perform all kinds of scheduling acrobatics so that either he or I ends up being home with Margot on any day of the week. And as it turns out, it's equal parts blessing and curse - because what we never really thought to factor in is the fact that doing that means that never in the course of a week will we ever be home together. Either he's at work, or I am. We don't have weekends. We've got evenings, sure, but Daryl's a social butterfly and I'm a homebody by nature so he inevitably does all kinds of gallivanting around town while I'm happy at home watching tv, playing on vine, and perusing Instagram. It works for us. 

...Except when it doesn't. Except when I every so often get swept away in a wave of jealousy so strong I want to yell and cry and throw in the towel altogether. I'm always vocal about it, mind you - I'm an open book when it comes to my thoughts and feelings and ideas about how I'm feeling - and I should also say that Daryl is the reigning King of encouraging me to do whatever it is I want to do, and to pursue the things that make me happy; the crux of the issue is me. It's me never totally knowing what it is I want, never really feeling like I know just the thing that'll make me feel free and fulfilled and as though I've had a sufficient break from my chaotic and overwhelming days with a teething/busy/cranky/happy/antsy/squirmy toddler. 

So this jealousy picks me up by the scruff of my neck and throws me against a wall - and it always catches me off guard, because by nature I am not a jealous person whatsoever. I don't struggle with insecurity or low self-esteem, and I'm happy and proud that Daryl and I have a relationship wherein we can both feel free to do our own thing at our own pace. But it turns out that there exists a level of social jealousy within me that is fierce and strong in spite of my introversion. I'm sure it has a lot - if not everything - to do with the fact that I don't live in my hometown and I'm not surrounded by family or lifelong friends in a familiar community, the way he is; but nevertheless, I end up being so ridiculously conflicted between wanting to give Daryl everything and wanting to hoard it all for myself. It's again another example of how I end up giving into my role of Mother with far more ease than I ever allow myself to be Self. Because it's just easier not to, even when it's actually so much harder. 

So next Saturday is monumental for me. Not only will I be able to spend the day marveling over the stories and experiences of like-minded women - women who've felt and experienced so much of what I have - but I'll be able to do all the things I can't normally do when I'm on baby duty. Like juggle torches and drink cocktails in the bathtub. 

They'll have bathtub cocktails there, right? 

Breastfeeding is not for the faint of heart.

I wrote a post a little while ago about how often I inevitably end up nursing Margot throughout the course of any given night because she's a comfort nurser / Supreme Dictator who demands a boob in order to fall back asleep for any respectable amount of time (oh and I use the word "respectable" very loosely, since she prefers to sleep in a long series of nap-length stints rather than all through the night). (Side bar: I've talked to her pediatrician about it, who isn't remotely concerned about her inclination to wake up so often - as she says, some kids are just bad sleepers. She'll outgrow the habit eventually.) But in the meantime, we're going on 18 solid months of intermittent nursing while the moon and stars watch over the chirping crickets and the people in our corner of the world who are resting their weary eyes.

But make no mistake - I dare not ever take one of these nights for granted, in spite of just how very fundamentally draining and exhausting they are. I know that my time with a little nursling is limited, and I know that aside from the deep bond we share there are numerous health benefits that we both gain, but foremost I know that I have the ability to breastfeed my daughter when so many mothers do not.

Directly after Margot's birth, during my 3rd-degree-tear repair surgery (one of two I would inevitably end up having), she latched on to my right boob and breastfed for a solid 45 minutes. Okay; wonderful! Great! What magic! She was a champion little nurser with a powerful suck. But after 24 hours or so, I realized that my right nipple was really sore. I knew breastfeeding was something we both had to perfect over time, but I was wincing in pain every time I'd nurse on the right - and was that a blister forming? A crack, maybe? What the hell is going on with my right nipple, now that I'm really studying it? Oh God, I thought. This is terrifying.

I had a lactation consultant come and take a look after someone had come in and suggested that Margot might have a tongue tie - thankfully, the woman we saw reassured me that actually Margot's latch was fantastic, that there was no need for any sort of tongue tie repair procedure, and that the likely cause of my nipple pain was due to an initial sub-par latch that irritated it. Forge on, she said, and handed me a tube of lanolin.

I'd love to have you relive the ensuing five weeks of Margot's life and our nursing relationship at the same pace that I endured that time, so that I could really hammer into you exactly what I went through, but I want you to stay and be friends with me, so I won't. Here's the quick version: something....happened. To my nipple. To this day neither my husband nor I can say exactly what, but it was something gross. Something horrendous. It wasn't decidedly a cracked nipple, nor was it obviously a blister. Suffice it to say it kind of looked like...uhhh.....like I could see something of the inside of my nipple that was never supposed to have been seen by the naked human eye. Just remembering what it looked like and what it felt like is making me weak in the knees. It stung, it throbbed, it bled, and it had its own heartbeat; and I can't say for sure that I've ever thrown out so many swear words at once in my life. Twice it brought me to tears - which may not sound like a lot of times, but it was. It just was.

I was determined not to lose my milk supply on that side though, so I never stopped nursing her on the right - but in hindsight, I really could have used a leather belt or something to bite down on. And I can't tell you how many times I'd find black specks all throughout Margot's poop because she was ingesting my blood along with my milk. (God help us both...in retrospect, what troopers we were! She and I should both have a medal. And maybe a tub of Haagen Dazs.)

But as you already know, I stuck it out. We made it. After the five-week mark and a dependence on lanolin that likened it to my own personal brand of crack, my right nipple healed. I know I never had an issue with milk supply, or with latch, which is the story of far too many women who have lamented a lost nursing relationship with their babies - but at the very least, hear me when I say that I know just how hard it is to establish that relationship in the first place, let alone see it through the days, weeks and months that unfold before you.

I've heard many a professional and layperson say that if you're doing it properly, breastfeeding your child won't hurt. Can I safely assume that all of us nursing mothers would love to punch that idea (and maybe those people, actually) in the face? Breastfeeding is a learning curve for both mama AND baby and it's incredibly misleading to make a woman think that she's doing something wrong just because the initial feeling induced by her newborn baby sucking on her nipples - her nipples, for God's sake! - ranges anywhere between unpleasant and downright excruciating. 

And without excluding those who've been unable to establish or maintain a breastfeeding relationship with their children, I cannot stress enough how important it is to seek out - and simultaneously offer - support from and to our fellow mothers. Without a secure support system, the mere concept of nursing a baby can feel staggering and unsurmountable. There are also scores of women who struggle with supply issues. It should go without saying that not one woman or man need ever pass judgement on a mother for how she feeds and sustains the life of her child, whether it be milk straight from the boob, breast milk from the bottle, or formula; whether you're blessed with an oversupply of milk, you're the recipient of donor milk, or you've opted to formula-feed for any series of reasons, remember that what matters most is that you're doing everything you can for your child - and don't let anybody let your confidence sway. 

So for those new mamas on that sharp learning curve, take heart - it'll come. You'll get the swing of it, as will your wee babe - and your body will adjust. It's working hard to give life and sustenance to another little person, and this comes at no small cost to both of you; both on a physical and an emotional scale. 

At any rate, sit down, have a glass of wine and take some deep breaths. It'll help.

You are home.

You matter. You are enough. You are a giver and sustainer of life; and you provide exactly what your little ones need of you. You are kind eyes, soft kisses, strong arms, and steady breath.

Remember: to those who matter most, you are home.

On wanting what the heart wants.

A friend of mine just recently made a leap – she left her $100K+ career because it occurred to her on her morning run that, as she said, “the human heart is worth more than that.” I said to her with deep envy that it had just occurred to me that it seems her heart and mine had been holding hands all this time, and I just hadn’t realized it – but that hers had just made this wild and glorious jump off a cliff, while mine is still standing over the precipice peeing its pants.

I’m not saying you or I or anybody needs to quit their job in order to follow their heart – but can you imagine that freedom? I mean, I actually can’t, really. I’m too busy sweating at the thought of all the worries that would crawl into my brain like cockroaches – how would we pay our mortgage? How would we keep food on our shelves and shoes on our feet? When we had Margot we decided to adjust our work schedules in order to forego daycare services, so as it stands I cut my income in half and that makes me antsy enough on any given day. So going cold turkey in order to spread those heart-wings? And MY heart-wings, no less, which I think could rival those of Falcor from the Neverending Story...? Oh no wait… Falcor didn’t have wings. (But if he did.)

I know how easy it is to slip into the almighty role of Mother and accidentally inadvertently lose the equally important concept of Self. I only have one child – so it’s a mystery to me how women with multiple children find the time to follow even little pursuits of happiness – because I know full well how hard it is to even find the freedom to pee with the door closed, let alone unload the dishwasher or do some other such task that I feel obligated to do in order that the household doesn’t inevitably fall apart.

I’m getting off track; and Margot is crying over the baby monitor, which I’m feeling inclined to chuck out the window (the monitor – not the baby). She so graciously allowed me just enough time to eat two massive bowls of Alpha Bits that I bought on a whim today, then she decided her nap was over. Thanks, babe.

Anyway. So I’m trying to imagine what indulging my heart’s desires would look like. Or even what they’d feel like. Have you ever mustered up the guts to shift your life in a totally different direction? I’ve only ever daydreamed about doing it, then accidentally let a slew of discouraging thoughts slip into my head – about how I don’t particularly have anything to offer, about how there’s no discernible reason as to why my writing would affect anybody more so than somebody else’s, or about how I likely just don’t have what it takes to be successful. But WHY do I have the audacity to think those things?! Step one is garnering the confidence to put one foot in front of the other, in the name of reaching toward exactly what it is that the heart wants.

On inspiration

Ashlee Wells Jackson & daughter Nova Emery, 4th Trimester Bodies Project

I think I forgot what being inspired felt like. Or ...no. I think I just forgot that I had a pilot light ablaze in my heart - and this past weekend, my heart nearly burst with such an intensity that I feel like someone took two hands and just shoved me right off a cliff.

Is that dramatic?

I'm one of the lucky few who was able to participate in Ashlee Wells Jackson's 4th Trimester Bodies Project. In the weeks and months leading up to my photo shoot, I felt an incredibly strong pull - like being a part of this movement was somehow already intrinsically a part of who I so desperately want to become, and who I already seem to have morphed into being; but now that I've done it, since having sat in a room with Ashlee Wells Jackson and her colleague Laura Weetzie Wilson and spilled out my story, shed tears, griped, questioned, and marveled, now I just feel like I'm about to explode. Like something within me woke up that I'm confident has been passed out, splayed on the floor for nearly a decade.

I'm fantasizing about doing something that makes a difference - something that feels like it matters - something that'll remind me that I matter. Joining with the women out there, the mothers, who advocate for pregnant and birthing women, and for mothers both new and seasoned. If only I had some sort of direction - I don't know what to do.

I'm 31. Almost but not quite 32. I hate that I feel like I'm wasting my days and my years; that outside of my life as a wife and a mother I'm not doing anything to make anybody's life better or richer, and that my heart feels like a raisin.

Why am I not doing that which makes me feel alive?

Join the army of brave and beautiful women supporting Ashlee & Laura in their efforts to normalize and celebrate motherhood and the changes that our bodies undergo as a result of pregnancy, childbirth and breastfeeding.

Visit them on Facebook, on Twitter, or on Instagram at @4thtribodies.