May in Georgia is confusing.
It's basically summer. Which means it's hotter than the sun down here, yet a bit rainy.
It also means it's beach weather; things are growing, and there is fun to be had by all.
And while a little bit of me wants to hole away from the heat and watch movies and eat an entire watermelon all by myself, the mom in me knows that time outside in this season means cool, calm nap times during the afternoon rain storms.
So out we go. Because after all, right now it is the season for...
***
....blueberry picking.
Our organic blueberry farm is open yet again, and this year, I've got a baby strapped to me and a toddler trailing behind me nipping berries out of my bucket. We're in heaven. Yes, it's sweaty, but it's incredibly fun to teach Ella where food comes from. It's also incredibly charming to watch her and her toddler friends scatter in and out of the pushes and shove berries in their mouths while she yells, "Yum! Boo-berries!"
***
...exercise.
Gosh, I hate the heat. But I have two children and no sitter. So up we go, early, and into the double stroller. And now, though it's a pain, and I'm always missing sleep for it, it's part of my routine again, and we need it more than anything. The weekends almost go awry because we don't go out walking/running in the mornings. I'm not at my pre-baby body-shape yet. I've got a few months to go. But at least it's a step toward getting there.
***
...water.
There is nothing that says "lazy parent" more than filling up the kiddie pool and water table, handing your toddler some cups and bowls, and telling her to have at it while you sit nearby and nurse the baby while reading and sunning your legs.
And boy, do I love it.
***
...big babies.
A few days shy of 3 months old, and Gloribeth is weighing in at 15 pounds.
I'll be totally honest and tell you that I forgot how much I adore this early baby stage. Where they laugh and coo and wiggle and pack on the rolls and round cheeks, but yet aren't mobile or too demanding yet.
As we expected, G is within an ounce of her sister's weight at this age, too. My babies get big early and then slow down when they start moving. They are cuddly little Gerber babies, and I find it positively scrumptious. It is this age when I adore co-sleeping because I can roll over and sniff their heads and stick my nose in their sweet-smelling little necks.
I was just telling a friend that I sometimes fear I will keep having baby after baby simply because I can't imagine ever being ready to say, "OK. I'm done. I don't ever need another soft, roly-poly baby to snuggle."
Because man, I love Glory to pieces, and Ella, too. But they are growing so fast that I already know they can't be my last babies. I need more milk breath to smell and neck rolls to nuzzle and yummy cheeks to kiss.
Watch out, Mrs. Duggar.
***
...potty-training.
We have dabbled in the Pee Pool and played with some Toilet Time.
But this week, we're hitting it hard. Potty-Training Boot Camp, here we come.
She is definitely ready. Has been, in fact. But I wasn't, to be honest. New baby and a deployed husband and a really demanding schedule all got in my way.
But somewhere between changing another foul toddler diaper and watching Ella tell me she's peeing as she's doing it, I realized we had to go for it. I had to say to myself, "Today, Brittany, you will be cleaning feces off your carpet."
And so far, we are doing OK. There have been accidents, but there have been successes, too.
We are doing it gradually, keeping diapers for bed time and out-on-the-town still. We just use undies - or nudity - at home. Then soon, we've got some trainers to try out for trips to the store, etc.
I already have significantly less cloth diaper laundry, and I find myself staring in wonder at the child - not baby - before me.
They tell you it flies, but until you find yourself doing a celebratory pee-pee dance and singing your own song entitled "We're Going Potty" to the tune of "You Are My Sunshine," you don't really believe them.
***
That's it here. What's the season bringing at your house?
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Thursday, May 16, 2013
Raises Hand
Who here has ever yelled at their toddler, loudly?
(raises hand)
Who here has ever started to potty-train their first born only to quit a day later?
(raises hand)
Who here was heard their baby poop in her sleep, and then left her there, refusing to wake her up, just to change that diaper?
(raises hand)
Who thinks motherhood is not for the faint of heart?
(raises both hands, a foot, and the sagging skin on my left hip caused by having two babies in under two years)
Motherhood is also not for the sane, at least not in my house, lately.
Yesterday afternoon, I fell asleep nursing the baby in the rocker, only to be awoken by a MegaBlock to the head five minutes later and a shout of "Mommy! No nap!"
And, in a not-so-pretty moment, I may have shouted back, "Stop it, Ella! Give me five more minutes!"
This gig I've got going is kicking my butt.
And it's gotten loads better, if you can believe it.
But it is still a dirty mess a lot of the time, and there are days where I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy.
I'm so tired. And hungry. And starved for me time.
But then Gloribeth coos up at me or Ella walks by and pats my shoulder and tells me I'm "pitty," and I realize I can't switch fates.
Until both kids cry, then I want to crawl out of my skin and run away.
Or when I tell Ella I'm using the restroom, and two seconds later, hear the panicked bellow of "Mama!" yet again, I cringe and want to drown in that toilet.
And when I put the baby down for a nap, only to watch her head pop up, winning against sleeping alone once again, I have to hold back the urge to bellow, "For once, can't things go my way!"
A friend of mine, who just had her second baby like me, looked at me a few weeks back and whispered, "It's harder than I ever thought it would be."
And it is. It really is.
The irony is, I thought it was going to be pretty hard from the beginning.
Yet, I'm still shocked.
Grocery trips physically exhaust me. Going anywhere physically exhausts me. I have days where I literally can't handle another rain drop falling and nights where I'm lucky if I sleep two consecutive hours.
I often feel dowdy, under-appreciated, over-worked, and largely ignored.
I'm hungry, dirty, and tired. And no one cares.
And that is the hard part about motherhood.
Your children are your responsibility. You are not theirs. And so, when it's just you and them, you often feel a little trod upon. It's kind of an emotionally frail place.
You're the caretaker. They receive and suck up all that love and attention you're doling out, though it's never enough because they always want more.
And on the bad days, where they're yelling or hitting or making completely irrational demands for "Easter eggs!" two months after you've put them away, it can even feel abusive.
No one really prepared me for that.
I was ready for my heart to grow. And it did. I was ready to be torn between the two loves of my life. And I was. I was ready to bask in the glow of having two little girls who loved me and each other. And I have.
But on the days when we're scraping the bottom of the sandbox and still running out of sand, well, those days are a thousand times uglier than I thought they'd be.
Not that I'd trade them in. I don't resent them.
But I do resent the fact that, after carrying my toddler on my back and my infant on my front all at the same time for more than hour yesterday, no one else is worried about the crick in my shoulder blades.
Up until this point, I've always felt young. I remember being shocked I was allowed to "keep" Ella. That I was allowed to get married. That I was allowed to buy a car and a house and a purse that was ridiculously overpriced.
But now, while it's not like I feel old, I also finally feel like an adult.
This sturdy, stable person who has to hold it together for all the fly-by-nights around her.
And, yet, the selfish, immature child inside me doesn't always want to die.
Sometimes I want to nap in the afternoon sans Megablocks. Sometimes I want to go pee in peace. Sometimes I want to eat dinner without wandering fingers grabbing handfuls right off my spoon.
And so, sometimes I snap.
Because who here has ever gotten mad over their children playing with their toys and making a perfectly normal mess in their rooms?
(raises hand)
Who here has given up on a Friday night and allowed their child to eat yet another peanut butter sandwich because that's what she demands and nothing else will do?
(raises hand)
And who else loves this motherhood gig - the good, the bad, and the ugly - even when the ugly consists of you, tired and hiding in the coat closet to eat a piece of chocolate in peace?
(raises hand over and over and over again)
No, motherhood isn't for the faint of heart.
Neither is adulthood.
Too bad we all have to grow up sometime.
(raises hand)
Who here has ever started to potty-train their first born only to quit a day later?
(raises hand)
Who here was heard their baby poop in her sleep, and then left her there, refusing to wake her up, just to change that diaper?
(raises hand)
Who thinks motherhood is not for the faint of heart?
(raises both hands, a foot, and the sagging skin on my left hip caused by having two babies in under two years)
Motherhood is also not for the sane, at least not in my house, lately.
Yesterday afternoon, I fell asleep nursing the baby in the rocker, only to be awoken by a MegaBlock to the head five minutes later and a shout of "Mommy! No nap!"
And, in a not-so-pretty moment, I may have shouted back, "Stop it, Ella! Give me five more minutes!"
This gig I've got going is kicking my butt.
And it's gotten loads better, if you can believe it.
But it is still a dirty mess a lot of the time, and there are days where I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy.
I'm so tired. And hungry. And starved for me time.
But then Gloribeth coos up at me or Ella walks by and pats my shoulder and tells me I'm "pitty," and I realize I can't switch fates.
Until both kids cry, then I want to crawl out of my skin and run away.
Or when I tell Ella I'm using the restroom, and two seconds later, hear the panicked bellow of "Mama!" yet again, I cringe and want to drown in that toilet.
And when I put the baby down for a nap, only to watch her head pop up, winning against sleeping alone once again, I have to hold back the urge to bellow, "For once, can't things go my way!"
A friend of mine, who just had her second baby like me, looked at me a few weeks back and whispered, "It's harder than I ever thought it would be."
And it is. It really is.
The irony is, I thought it was going to be pretty hard from the beginning.
Yet, I'm still shocked.
Grocery trips physically exhaust me. Going anywhere physically exhausts me. I have days where I literally can't handle another rain drop falling and nights where I'm lucky if I sleep two consecutive hours.
I often feel dowdy, under-appreciated, over-worked, and largely ignored.
I'm hungry, dirty, and tired. And no one cares.
And that is the hard part about motherhood.
Your children are your responsibility. You are not theirs. And so, when it's just you and them, you often feel a little trod upon. It's kind of an emotionally frail place.
You're the caretaker. They receive and suck up all that love and attention you're doling out, though it's never enough because they always want more.
And on the bad days, where they're yelling or hitting or making completely irrational demands for "Easter eggs!" two months after you've put them away, it can even feel abusive.
No one really prepared me for that.
I was ready for my heart to grow. And it did. I was ready to be torn between the two loves of my life. And I was. I was ready to bask in the glow of having two little girls who loved me and each other. And I have.
But on the days when we're scraping the bottom of the sandbox and still running out of sand, well, those days are a thousand times uglier than I thought they'd be.
Not that I'd trade them in. I don't resent them.
But I do resent the fact that, after carrying my toddler on my back and my infant on my front all at the same time for more than hour yesterday, no one else is worried about the crick in my shoulder blades.
Up until this point, I've always felt young. I remember being shocked I was allowed to "keep" Ella. That I was allowed to get married. That I was allowed to buy a car and a house and a purse that was ridiculously overpriced.
But now, while it's not like I feel old, I also finally feel like an adult.
This sturdy, stable person who has to hold it together for all the fly-by-nights around her.
And, yet, the selfish, immature child inside me doesn't always want to die.
Sometimes I want to nap in the afternoon sans Megablocks. Sometimes I want to go pee in peace. Sometimes I want to eat dinner without wandering fingers grabbing handfuls right off my spoon.
And so, sometimes I snap.
Because who here has ever gotten mad over their children playing with their toys and making a perfectly normal mess in their rooms?
(raises hand)
Who here has given up on a Friday night and allowed their child to eat yet another peanut butter sandwich because that's what she demands and nothing else will do?
(raises hand)
And who else loves this motherhood gig - the good, the bad, and the ugly - even when the ugly consists of you, tired and hiding in the coat closet to eat a piece of chocolate in peace?
(raises hand over and over and over again)
No, motherhood isn't for the faint of heart.
Neither is adulthood.
Too bad we all have to grow up sometime.
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
The Missing Piece Grows
My parents came to visit me on Mother's Day - a simple gift I adored because, while I love my girls, being with just them on that Sunday, would have been a bit depressing.
But, even though they came to stay with me, they really came to see their granddaughters.
Another little fact I'm fine with, as it often affords me an uninterrupted shower or trip to the bathroom.
But, after one aforementioned peaceful pee break, I walked back into the living room to find my mother trying to take a picture of Gloribeth.
I say trying because she couldn't do it.
There was a toddler in the way. Laying on top of her sister. Covering her with her arms. Sticking her face in way of the iPhone camera. Meanwhile, the infant wriggled and cooed adorably on the floor. All un-captured by any camera, all thanks to Ella.
Ah, the life of a second-born child.
We adore this little girl, simply put.
But there are less pictures, less original outfits, less moments spent shaking a rattle for a 2 month old who lies there and stares up at you with an expression that basically says, "Uh, Mom. Get that clanging thing out of my face, and feed me already."
She was born and kind of just jumped on the coaster we are currently on.
She rides next to her sister in the stroller, spends inordinate amounts of time wrapped to me or tucked in a sling, and lays in my lap or on a blanket next to me while I play, read, or talk to Ella.
It's not that I don't adore her. Because I do. As cliche as it sounds, when I look at her, I feel that piece of my heart sing that she fits into; she was missing in my life, and it took meeting her to realize I couldn't have lived any longer without her.
But all those little worldly details just don't happen - or get as much devotion - as they do for your much-anticipated first-born.
Still, for me as a mother, there are pluses to this second-time gig.
I am a thousand times more relaxed. She spits up, and I wipe it away instead of panicking about reflux or malnutrition or some hidden, little-known allergy, like I did with Ella.
She goes a day without pooping? I ignore it, instead of obsessing over a possible bowel obstruction.
She starts crying while I'm elbow-deep in raw ground beef for meatloaf? I calmly take the next 60 seconds to wash my hands and talk to her, instead of nearing tears as I washed possible e.coli off my digits, worrying those 30 seconds of crying would scar her siste3r for life and impede her brain development.
And I think Gloribeth can sense my calm-ness, too.
It's either that, or God smiled upon me and blessed me with an incredibly easy baby the second time around.
It's part of the reason she's almost 3 months old, and I'm just now updating you all about her.
She's incredibly flexible and easy-going. I got lots of snide remarks a while back because I vowed to never use a pacifier with this baby.
And, truth be told, while I planned to hold to that, I at least expected there to be a day here or there where I wished I had one to plug her up.
Well, to be honest, that hasn't happened. Not even once.
She cries when she's pooped, when she's hungry, when she wants to be held, or when she's tired.
She eats regularly and extremely efficiently. She loves to be held but can withstand some time in the bouncy seat or the playmat so I can get things done.
She grins like a Cheshire cat when she sees me whip out a wrap. She tucks in and falls asleep easily.
She falls asleep pretty easily bobbing along in baby carriers, reclining in the bouncy seat, nursing, or sitting on my lap.
She's chubbed up just like her sister did and rocks the round cheeks and sweet rolls all over. I kiss and nuzzle her all day while I wear her or play with her sister.
She's also surprisingly extroverted. (For some reason, because Ella is such a social butterfly, I expected my next child to be a bit more introverted.) But no, she is incredibly chatty and smiley and adores being with people.
She already thinks her big sister is hilarious, and she talks to me at every chance she gets. She'll pop off the breast while nursing to coo and exclaim over who-knows-what. And loudly, too.
She loves to be propped up on her tummy so she can talk and watch us, and in general, she likes to be right with us at all times.
She naps alone really well, but she sleeps with me at night, which I pretty much adore. It keeps her from crying, as she nuzzles me or bats at me when she's hungry. Which isn't too frequently. I'd wager it averages out to every four hours. I'm not entirely sure, as I barely wake up to latch her on, and we both drift back off to sleep extremely quickly.
She occasionally loses patience late in the day, like if I have to remove her sister from the bath-tub (she doesn't want to be put down) or cook dinner (she prefers vigorous movement while I'm carrying her later in the day. Cooking dinner is often too stagnant.)
But she loves baths herself. And she already enjoys reading books with her sister.
She already can inch herself across the floor and rolls over, but only when she wants to.
She's an early riser, though I think that's because her sister already programmed her to rise before 7 a.m. But her three naps are really predictable, and she transfers in and out of a carseat asleep - all of which I'm eternally grateful for.
She's picked up a round of nicknames of her own, most of which I think she'd answer to over her actual name. They are not limited to but include Nugget, Nugs, Little Nugs, Angel Face, Sweet Baby Lady, Milky Babes, Lovey Girl, Sissy, and Sisseroo.
I knew it was bad when I walked in the playroom to find Ella cooing at Gloribeth in the bouncy seat, "Hi, Anchel Baby! Hi Nujjet! Hi Seeseeroo!"
So, yeah, that's my second born. I wouldn't make it through my day without her sweet smiles.
She really is the missing piece of my heart puzzle, even if I don't tout her advances and preferences nearly as much as I did her big sisters.
But I promise, even though there are less photos that capture her moments, we are still here enjoying every second of them, toddler distractions and all.
But, even though they came to stay with me, they really came to see their granddaughters.
Another little fact I'm fine with, as it often affords me an uninterrupted shower or trip to the bathroom.
But, after one aforementioned peaceful pee break, I walked back into the living room to find my mother trying to take a picture of Gloribeth.
I say trying because she couldn't do it.
There was a toddler in the way. Laying on top of her sister. Covering her with her arms. Sticking her face in way of the iPhone camera. Meanwhile, the infant wriggled and cooed adorably on the floor. All un-captured by any camera, all thanks to Ella.
Ah, the life of a second-born child.
We adore this little girl, simply put.
But there are less pictures, less original outfits, less moments spent shaking a rattle for a 2 month old who lies there and stares up at you with an expression that basically says, "Uh, Mom. Get that clanging thing out of my face, and feed me already."
She was born and kind of just jumped on the coaster we are currently on.
She rides next to her sister in the stroller, spends inordinate amounts of time wrapped to me or tucked in a sling, and lays in my lap or on a blanket next to me while I play, read, or talk to Ella.
It's not that I don't adore her. Because I do. As cliche as it sounds, when I look at her, I feel that piece of my heart sing that she fits into; she was missing in my life, and it took meeting her to realize I couldn't have lived any longer without her.
But all those little worldly details just don't happen - or get as much devotion - as they do for your much-anticipated first-born.
Still, for me as a mother, there are pluses to this second-time gig.
I am a thousand times more relaxed. She spits up, and I wipe it away instead of panicking about reflux or malnutrition or some hidden, little-known allergy, like I did with Ella.
She goes a day without pooping? I ignore it, instead of obsessing over a possible bowel obstruction.
She starts crying while I'm elbow-deep in raw ground beef for meatloaf? I calmly take the next 60 seconds to wash my hands and talk to her, instead of nearing tears as I washed possible e.coli off my digits, worrying those 30 seconds of crying would scar her siste3r for life and impede her brain development.
And I think Gloribeth can sense my calm-ness, too.
It's either that, or God smiled upon me and blessed me with an incredibly easy baby the second time around.
It's part of the reason she's almost 3 months old, and I'm just now updating you all about her.
She's incredibly flexible and easy-going. I got lots of snide remarks a while back because I vowed to never use a pacifier with this baby.
And, truth be told, while I planned to hold to that, I at least expected there to be a day here or there where I wished I had one to plug her up.
Well, to be honest, that hasn't happened. Not even once.
She cries when she's pooped, when she's hungry, when she wants to be held, or when she's tired.
She eats regularly and extremely efficiently. She loves to be held but can withstand some time in the bouncy seat or the playmat so I can get things done.
She grins like a Cheshire cat when she sees me whip out a wrap. She tucks in and falls asleep easily.
She falls asleep pretty easily bobbing along in baby carriers, reclining in the bouncy seat, nursing, or sitting on my lap.
She's chubbed up just like her sister did and rocks the round cheeks and sweet rolls all over. I kiss and nuzzle her all day while I wear her or play with her sister.
She's also surprisingly extroverted. (For some reason, because Ella is such a social butterfly, I expected my next child to be a bit more introverted.) But no, she is incredibly chatty and smiley and adores being with people.
She already thinks her big sister is hilarious, and she talks to me at every chance she gets. She'll pop off the breast while nursing to coo and exclaim over who-knows-what. And loudly, too.
She loves to be propped up on her tummy so she can talk and watch us, and in general, she likes to be right with us at all times.
She occasionally loses patience late in the day, like if I have to remove her sister from the bath-tub (she doesn't want to be put down) or cook dinner (she prefers vigorous movement while I'm carrying her later in the day. Cooking dinner is often too stagnant.)
But she loves baths herself. And she already enjoys reading books with her sister.
She already can inch herself across the floor and rolls over, but only when she wants to.
She's an early riser, though I think that's because her sister already programmed her to rise before 7 a.m. But her three naps are really predictable, and she transfers in and out of a carseat asleep - all of which I'm eternally grateful for.
She's picked up a round of nicknames of her own, most of which I think she'd answer to over her actual name. They are not limited to but include Nugget, Nugs, Little Nugs, Angel Face, Sweet Baby Lady, Milky Babes, Lovey Girl, Sissy, and Sisseroo.
I knew it was bad when I walked in the playroom to find Ella cooing at Gloribeth in the bouncy seat, "Hi, Anchel Baby! Hi Nujjet! Hi Seeseeroo!"
So, yeah, that's my second born. I wouldn't make it through my day without her sweet smiles.
She really is the missing piece of my heart puzzle, even if I don't tout her advances and preferences nearly as much as I did her big sisters.
But I promise, even though there are less photos that capture her moments, we are still here enjoying every second of them, toddler distractions and all.
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
In My Mailbox
I'll be honest. Part of the reason I've had a hard time writing recently is that I'm a mom blogger.
And right now, I'm having a hard time being a mom.
My toddler is literally challenging every ounce of my humanity every waking, and most sleeping, hours.
And my angel-faced 2.5 month old is, well, 2.5 months old. So her basic needs are a 24-7 job.
|
I've been stressed and angry and upset and unhappy with myself in so many ways. I have no time alone, for myself, and I've simply burnt out most days when I sit down to blog.
And I've been meaning to write about it - tell you how irritatingly insane toddlerhood is driving me and how my baby is growing up in my arms, and I barely have a chance to notice it - but it's exhausting.
I fell asleep making almond butter in my crazy-loud blender last week, while standing up. I'm that tired. And even more overwhelmed.
And then I went to my mailbox yesterday. I pulled up, with both girls hollering in the back of the car, yelling my normal mantra of "Two seconds! We'll be home in two seconds!" as I wondered how I'd empty the groceries, the mess, the kids, and whatever bills lay in the mailbox before the rain clouds opened up.
I nicked my thumb opening the mailbox, just like I did every time I grabbed the mail. I immediately stuck my thumb in my mouth and then, I saw it. Sitting there.
One lone envelope. Decorated beautifully, with garden-inspired drawings.
Hmm, I thought. That never happens. Just one envelope.
The kids had escalated in the car, and I rolled my eyes. I was dreading going home. Being the jungle-gym my toddler climbed on and the pacifier my infant needed. Washing more laundry and tripping over more toys obstinately placed under my feet.
So I opened the envelope as I headed back to my car door.
And then I pulled out an invitation, and my heart stopped.
A month or so ago, a friend of mine had received horrible news. The little girl she was pregnant with wasn't going to be viable outside of the womb. She was faced with a tough choice - a brave choice. An impossible choice.
A choice that, when her sister- in-law called me to tell me the news, made my heart wring as my eyes welled up.
And now - choice made - she's faced with months of carrying her daughter in her womb, feeling her move and grow, and knowing that what happens after labor and delivery will be unlike any story most other moms tell when they talk about their daughter's birth.
It is a nightmare, simply put.
And the invitation that lay in the mail was the amazing way her sisters and family could help her deal with that nightmare.
It's the way they could honor her as a mother and celebrate her child, even when others may never understand the magnitude with which that family was born.
And so, amidst the crying kids and messy car, sitting in grimy clothes and without a shower for several days, I lost it, simply put. I sat in my car and cried. And cried and cried and cried.
My children were driving me nuts. I'd probably have sawed off my right arm to take a shower alone, un-rushed, and without my head out the curtain listening for a crash or a cry up until that point.
But that invite - that little, lone letter in my mailbox - reminded me of one simple, profound thing.
My children are here. When I gave birth to them, we came home, and they demanded food and attention and kept me awake. They grew into a toddler who has sass and questions everything and marches to her own, sometimes insane, beat. They became babies who have witching hours and specific cries and terribly inconsistent demands for swaying and rocking and nursing in certain positions.
They gave me thrush and mastitis and migraines and an extra 5 pounds and an inch or two around my waist I can't shake.
They've hit me and bit me and pulled my hair and ripped my clothes and broke my jewelry.
They've stained my carpets and thrown up on my dog and pooped everywhere. And I mean everywhere.
They completely consume my house, car, wallet, computer, brain, everything.
But they are here. Every annoying, stubborn, stupid tantrum they've thrown here.
What a blessing that is.
***
While I'll never be able to understand why I got to keep my babies here with me - why I get to be the lucky one - I do understand that it's my human-ness that makes me forget all too quickly that a lot of women see my child screaming for a balloon in the check-out line and wish they could have that ringing in their ears all the time.
I remember what it was like to wish for a baby I didn't have. I felt numb, walking around without what I felt were my missing pieces.
But to find those pieces, only to lose them too soon, before you really get a chance to complete your puzzle?
It's a crippling kind of pain every mother dreads and few know.
It's the story we hear and go, "How is she strong enough to survive that?"
Sleepless nights and days spent ushering kids in and out of time-out pail in comparison to even a tenth of that pain.
I hate that my friend is having to go through it; I hate that there isn't a thing we can do about it, either.
And I hate that it took such a sad letter in my mailbox to make me realize how good I have it.
My crazy, beautiful, demanding daughters are here.
In my motherhood journey, I have nothing to complain about at all.
And right now, I'm having a hard time being a mom.
My toddler is literally challenging every ounce of my humanity every waking, and most sleeping, hours.
And my angel-faced 2.5 month old is, well, 2.5 months old. So her basic needs are a 24-7 job.
|
I've been stressed and angry and upset and unhappy with myself in so many ways. I have no time alone, for myself, and I've simply burnt out most days when I sit down to blog.
And I've been meaning to write about it - tell you how irritatingly insane toddlerhood is driving me and how my baby is growing up in my arms, and I barely have a chance to notice it - but it's exhausting.
I fell asleep making almond butter in my crazy-loud blender last week, while standing up. I'm that tired. And even more overwhelmed.
And then I went to my mailbox yesterday. I pulled up, with both girls hollering in the back of the car, yelling my normal mantra of "Two seconds! We'll be home in two seconds!" as I wondered how I'd empty the groceries, the mess, the kids, and whatever bills lay in the mailbox before the rain clouds opened up.
I nicked my thumb opening the mailbox, just like I did every time I grabbed the mail. I immediately stuck my thumb in my mouth and then, I saw it. Sitting there.
One lone envelope. Decorated beautifully, with garden-inspired drawings.
Hmm, I thought. That never happens. Just one envelope.
The kids had escalated in the car, and I rolled my eyes. I was dreading going home. Being the jungle-gym my toddler climbed on and the pacifier my infant needed. Washing more laundry and tripping over more toys obstinately placed under my feet.
So I opened the envelope as I headed back to my car door.
And then I pulled out an invitation, and my heart stopped.
A month or so ago, a friend of mine had received horrible news. The little girl she was pregnant with wasn't going to be viable outside of the womb. She was faced with a tough choice - a brave choice. An impossible choice.
A choice that, when her sister- in-law called me to tell me the news, made my heart wring as my eyes welled up.
And now - choice made - she's faced with months of carrying her daughter in her womb, feeling her move and grow, and knowing that what happens after labor and delivery will be unlike any story most other moms tell when they talk about their daughter's birth.
It is a nightmare, simply put.
And the invitation that lay in the mail was the amazing way her sisters and family could help her deal with that nightmare.
It's the way they could honor her as a mother and celebrate her child, even when others may never understand the magnitude with which that family was born.
And so, amidst the crying kids and messy car, sitting in grimy clothes and without a shower for several days, I lost it, simply put. I sat in my car and cried. And cried and cried and cried.
My children were driving me nuts. I'd probably have sawed off my right arm to take a shower alone, un-rushed, and without my head out the curtain listening for a crash or a cry up until that point.
But that invite - that little, lone letter in my mailbox - reminded me of one simple, profound thing.
My children are here. When I gave birth to them, we came home, and they demanded food and attention and kept me awake. They grew into a toddler who has sass and questions everything and marches to her own, sometimes insane, beat. They became babies who have witching hours and specific cries and terribly inconsistent demands for swaying and rocking and nursing in certain positions.
They gave me thrush and mastitis and migraines and an extra 5 pounds and an inch or two around my waist I can't shake.
They've hit me and bit me and pulled my hair and ripped my clothes and broke my jewelry.
They've stained my carpets and thrown up on my dog and pooped everywhere. And I mean everywhere.
They completely consume my house, car, wallet, computer, brain, everything.
But they are here. Every annoying, stubborn, stupid tantrum they've thrown here.
What a blessing that is.
***
While I'll never be able to understand why I got to keep my babies here with me - why I get to be the lucky one - I do understand that it's my human-ness that makes me forget all too quickly that a lot of women see my child screaming for a balloon in the check-out line and wish they could have that ringing in their ears all the time.
I remember what it was like to wish for a baby I didn't have. I felt numb, walking around without what I felt were my missing pieces.
But to find those pieces, only to lose them too soon, before you really get a chance to complete your puzzle?
It's a crippling kind of pain every mother dreads and few know.
It's the story we hear and go, "How is she strong enough to survive that?"
Sleepless nights and days spent ushering kids in and out of time-out pail in comparison to even a tenth of that pain.
I hate that my friend is having to go through it; I hate that there isn't a thing we can do about it, either.
And I hate that it took such a sad letter in my mailbox to make me realize how good I have it.
My crazy, beautiful, demanding daughters are here.
In my motherhood journey, I have nothing to complain about at all.
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
Blink Blink
I'm sitting here rubbing sand out of my blogging eyes.
I fell out of practice over these past few weeks, as I'm sure you can tell.
Everything is fine. Nothing catastrophic happened. But there was a lot of Sleep v. Blog internal debates. And we can all tell who the victor was there.
But no more.
Catch-up must occur, and I am here to provide it.
I need my little Internet corner, as much as I needed the break I took. So, for tonight, Sleep won't win.
Let's see what we're up to.
***
I walked into a party last week juggling a mondo diaper bag, a baby in a sling, and a toddler on my hip and heard the all too familiar words, "You got that?"
I leave the house every day, but it is a production, and doing it - in an effort to not feel desperate or lonely - sometimes makes me feel all the more alone, as I struggle to literally and figuratively balance diapers and snacks and kids and shoes and sun-hats and toys and wet wipes.
But we're doing it. Over and over and over again. Enough so that I will have to pay homage to several companies who make baby carriers and wraps and slings after this because without them, we would be half-starved and unable to go anywhere.
Still, life isn't totally together. Not even a little bit.
Check out what obvious household task I can't seem to get a grasp of as a military wife and mother of two at my blog for Salute to Spouses.
Suffice it to say, there are huge areas where we are struggling, still.
But today, Gloribeth hit 8 weeks old.
And Ella is closing in on 23 months of age.
Life isn't slowing down.
I literally blink, and it's 5 p.m. most days. And then I have to stop folding the laundry, put down the hand-weights and exercise tubing, and hide Ella's puppets, because I'm yet again making dinner into baths into bed time.
So, yeah, I'm a little tired.
And then you throw in other things, like the fact that I was an organizer for my area's Great Cloth Diaper Change this past weekend. And you find me vacuum-sealing lactation cookies at 1 a.m. the night before the big event, where my children were then exposed to some sort of cold, stomach-related virus.
Which still has me freaking out, as friend after friend falls prey to the sickies around me.
And still, we remain fine. I just feel like a sitting duck.
It makes me wonder why I fight so hard to leave the house every day at all.
Because, you see, there is plenty to do here. I'm currently knee-deep in unfinished wooden toys I'm painting and waxing for the girls myself.
I've switched our cabinets and kitchen storage almost completely to glass, and now, I'm having a strong urge to mess with everything.
Make it better. Cleaner. Newer. More efficient.
Not to mention my obsession with cutting all packaged and processed food out of our lives, which has me turning to my blender every day in an effort to whip up things like almond butter, hummus and bread without the use of a grocery store.
Mama's here, but Mama's busy.
***
I want to talk about it. My adorable girls. My experiences with two under 2. My absolute and utter Dos and Don'ts, Purchase and Don't Purchase lists for new moms.
So let's try it.
It may take me a while. The blog will be sporadic at best, thanks to my children, my OCD, and the United States Navy.
But don't count me out, yet.
When I can, I will blog. And I will tell you about Ella's love for her Sissy, and Sissy's smiles that melt us all.
And when I can't, when Sleep wins that battle once again, well, you'll have to forgive me.
Because remember, Mama may be busy, but Mama's also very, very tired.
Which reminds me.
Blink, blink, blink.
Time to give up the ghost on this one.
Blogging won tonight, early on, but Sleep may be creeping in for a final come-from-behind victory.
Sweet Dreams.
I fell out of practice over these past few weeks, as I'm sure you can tell.
Everything is fine. Nothing catastrophic happened. But there was a lot of Sleep v. Blog internal debates. And we can all tell who the victor was there.
But no more.
Catch-up must occur, and I am here to provide it.
I need my little Internet corner, as much as I needed the break I took. So, for tonight, Sleep won't win.
Let's see what we're up to.
***
I walked into a party last week juggling a mondo diaper bag, a baby in a sling, and a toddler on my hip and heard the all too familiar words, "You got that?"
I leave the house every day, but it is a production, and doing it - in an effort to not feel desperate or lonely - sometimes makes me feel all the more alone, as I struggle to literally and figuratively balance diapers and snacks and kids and shoes and sun-hats and toys and wet wipes.
But we're doing it. Over and over and over again. Enough so that I will have to pay homage to several companies who make baby carriers and wraps and slings after this because without them, we would be half-starved and unable to go anywhere.
Still, life isn't totally together. Not even a little bit.
Check out what obvious household task I can't seem to get a grasp of as a military wife and mother of two at my blog for Salute to Spouses.
But today, Gloribeth hit 8 weeks old.
And Ella is closing in on 23 months of age.
Life isn't slowing down.
I literally blink, and it's 5 p.m. most days. And then I have to stop folding the laundry, put down the hand-weights and exercise tubing, and hide Ella's puppets, because I'm yet again making dinner into baths into bed time.
So, yeah, I'm a little tired.
And then you throw in other things, like the fact that I was an organizer for my area's Great Cloth Diaper Change this past weekend. And you find me vacuum-sealing lactation cookies at 1 a.m. the night before the big event, where my children were then exposed to some sort of cold, stomach-related virus.
Which still has me freaking out, as friend after friend falls prey to the sickies around me.
And still, we remain fine. I just feel like a sitting duck.
It makes me wonder why I fight so hard to leave the house every day at all.
Because, you see, there is plenty to do here. I'm currently knee-deep in unfinished wooden toys I'm painting and waxing for the girls myself.
I've switched our cabinets and kitchen storage almost completely to glass, and now, I'm having a strong urge to mess with everything.
Make it better. Cleaner. Newer. More efficient.
Not to mention my obsession with cutting all packaged and processed food out of our lives, which has me turning to my blender every day in an effort to whip up things like almond butter, hummus and bread without the use of a grocery store.
Mama's here, but Mama's busy.
***
I want to talk about it. My adorable girls. My experiences with two under 2. My absolute and utter Dos and Don'ts, Purchase and Don't Purchase lists for new moms.
So let's try it.
It may take me a while. The blog will be sporadic at best, thanks to my children, my OCD, and the United States Navy.
But don't count me out, yet.
When I can, I will blog. And I will tell you about Ella's love for her Sissy, and Sissy's smiles that melt us all.
And when I can't, when Sleep wins that battle once again, well, you'll have to forgive me.
Because remember, Mama may be busy, but Mama's also very, very tired.
Which reminds me.
Blink, blink, blink.
Time to give up the ghost on this one.
Blogging won tonight, early on, but Sleep may be creeping in for a final come-from-behind victory.
Sweet Dreams.
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Rocked World
Gloribeth was less than 12 hours old when, sitting on my bed, Ella next to me, I went to nurse my new baby in front of her older sister.
I wish I could say it went well. That she lovingly looked at her sister and "got it."
But she didn't.
She threw a tantrum. She hadn't nursed much at all in the last month or two, but she was not entirely weaned.
And, as soon as she saw that newborn latch on, game over.
She was exhausted already, and she threw a tantrum. In fact, she screamed, "Nurse! Nurse!" and tried to push the baby out of my lap.
My mom tried to wrangle her away from me; no dice. My toddler, it seems, is freakishly strong.
I blame the breast-milk.
Long story short, I ended up having to nurse them both for a few minutes, and even after I unlatched her, the tantrum continued.
That set the tone for the next few weeks.
Ella stopped asking for things, using the full sentences she'd had for months.
She started demanding attention, even when she didn't want it, even over things she never cares about.
Take, for example, last week, when the baby was napping, and Ella and I were reading. She was turning the pages; I was reading the words. Then, after 23 minutes of this, she stopped wanting to turn the pages. Not that she told me that.
She just started screaming.
And screaming and screaming and screaming.
Because she wanted me to turn the pages. Something she can clearly enunciate, mind you. She's extremely verbal for her age. But I sat there bewildered because she simply decided it was my turn to flip pages and never clued me in.
She refused to "use her words," as I encouraged her, and just kept crying-whining-yelling. She woke up her sister, who I eventually had to tend to, and, for the next three hours, we never fully recovered.
Eventually, I was so frazzled by her clutching at my pants and hitting me and screaming like a banshee - something she has never done - I yelled back at her.
It was a low point. A low, low point. Amid, I'm sad to say, a bunch of pretty-darn-low points as it is.
Any patience a toddler could have? Gone.
Her sister cries? She cries. She cries just to get her sister crying. She wants anything at all? She goes from perfectly happy to Breakdown City in less than a second.
I spend all day telling her, "I don't understand screaming. You need to ask nicely."
She stopped napping a few days after her sister was born, making the hours from 3 p.m. to dinner time particularly tenuous.
My post-partum hormones have me a bit on edge about the messiness that happens in a house with little ones, and she seems to drag out everything - and I mean clean and dirty laundry, every shoe in the house, dishes, toys, dolls, crayons, board games, diapers, craft supplies, garage sale stuff, my bras, and the Goodwill pile - just to lay it under my feet while I'm doing dishes.
She's insistent on cooking with me and complaining while we do it. She wants to be in my lap when it's not a good time. Or nowhere near it when I need her to be.
Car rides are hell. I've given up even trying the no-go nap because it was so miserable it set us up for complete failure the rest of the day.
We do "quiet time" now - books or a short PBS video so I don't want to strangle her, myself, or a stuffed bunny by the end of the day - and we go to bed earlier.
And she's still losing it at the slightest provocation.
Now, this week, it's getting better.
Apparently, my "We ask nicely and use words" message is getting through because when she wants something - "Cackers! Cackers!"(add in a hit/scream/wail/flop about) - and I ask her, "How do we ask nicely when we'd like something?" she will immediately pipe in with "Cackers, please! No whine!" while shaking her little index finger and grinning.
Oh lordy be.
Tantrums are much more likely to only occur when she's hungry or tired. So I have to stay on top of her meals and snacks, plus really work that unwinding quiet time, to keep them to a minimum. But it's working.
Her sister, who is sleeping in in the morning like a lot of newborns do, is suffering a bit in the sleep department, as we are still going to parks, playdates, story time, and tumbling class every week because Ella is perfectly behaved when out of the house. Not ideal, but it's working.
Now, this means they both get testy around lunch time, and I'm then dragging them both out of the car as they scream, trying to shove lunch in the mouth of one with one hand while nursing the other, all while using every fiber of my being not to yell at the thrashing toddler, "Fine! Just sit there and scream! I don't care! Shut up or don't shut up! Just leave me alone!"
That seems to be happening less and less, though, so it's working.
But, still, even with that lovely scenario above happening as recently as Monday, it is getting better.
Ella is slowly but surely returning to talking through things.
If she needs touch, she will ask to "cuddle." She's used how "Sissy" fits into the routine. She's stopped having fits over nursing and has actually stopped nursing entirely, probably because, as she says "Sissy eats milkies and nurses; no teef," while "Ella eats muffins/can-a-lope/soup because big sishter; Ella's teef."
Perfectly timed with her sister's arrival - along with her loss of the nap and weaning - she also cut all four of her canine teeth and hit a growth spurt.
We were screwed even if she'd adapted beautifully to her sister being here.
But once we realized it, and I started feeding her more and pushing the snacks and teething tablets, things got better, too.
She adores "pee-school" and gets that special time with me doing projects while Gloribeth naps. She's used to being lifted into the bath, car, or bed while I have the baby in the wrap.
We are getting there, ugly though the journey may be.
***
I won't lie to you all, as brutal as the honesty is.
I feared this; I almost expected it.
I wanted another half-year between my first and second because I knew Ella. I knew her personality and what she needed and emotionally looked for.
And I knew this would be rough.
And it was; it is.
It's hard on me, too.
I have to choose throughout the day one child over the other.
The baby has to be fed, and she's at my breast, rendering me useless at making Ella her muffins in that moment. Ella has to have a clean diaper on. Her sister has to cry sometimes so I can deal with the poop up against my first-born's sensitive skin.
I hate it. That's my hang-up; I get that. But it's not really ingrained in my parenting style, and though I know they both are perfectly healthy and fine, I hate it enough that it drives me to worry and trip over my own guilt.
Am I making eye contact with Glory enough? Am I hugging Ella with both arms unencumbered enough? Am I making her enough special morning pancakes, or singing enough lullabies to my bambino?
Am I?
I have no idea.
We're a month into this journey, and I'm just a little nose poking out above the water, breathing for the rest of me, which isn't floating by a long shot.
But we're not entirely sinking, either.
So there's that. Little milestones. Little successes.
It's not pretty. In fact, it's still pretty ugly right now.
But it's working.
I wish I could say it went well. That she lovingly looked at her sister and "got it."
But she didn't.
She threw a tantrum. She hadn't nursed much at all in the last month or two, but she was not entirely weaned.
And, as soon as she saw that newborn latch on, game over.
She was exhausted already, and she threw a tantrum. In fact, she screamed, "Nurse! Nurse!" and tried to push the baby out of my lap.
My mom tried to wrangle her away from me; no dice. My toddler, it seems, is freakishly strong.
I blame the breast-milk.
Long story short, I ended up having to nurse them both for a few minutes, and even after I unlatched her, the tantrum continued.
That set the tone for the next few weeks.
Ella stopped asking for things, using the full sentences she'd had for months.
She started demanding attention, even when she didn't want it, even over things she never cares about.
Take, for example, last week, when the baby was napping, and Ella and I were reading. She was turning the pages; I was reading the words. Then, after 23 minutes of this, she stopped wanting to turn the pages. Not that she told me that.
She just started screaming.
And screaming and screaming and screaming.
Because she wanted me to turn the pages. Something she can clearly enunciate, mind you. She's extremely verbal for her age. But I sat there bewildered because she simply decided it was my turn to flip pages and never clued me in.
She refused to "use her words," as I encouraged her, and just kept crying-whining-yelling. She woke up her sister, who I eventually had to tend to, and, for the next three hours, we never fully recovered.
Eventually, I was so frazzled by her clutching at my pants and hitting me and screaming like a banshee - something she has never done - I yelled back at her.
It was a low point. A low, low point. Amid, I'm sad to say, a bunch of pretty-darn-low points as it is.
Any patience a toddler could have? Gone.
Her sister cries? She cries. She cries just to get her sister crying. She wants anything at all? She goes from perfectly happy to Breakdown City in less than a second.
I spend all day telling her, "I don't understand screaming. You need to ask nicely."
She stopped napping a few days after her sister was born, making the hours from 3 p.m. to dinner time particularly tenuous.
My post-partum hormones have me a bit on edge about the messiness that happens in a house with little ones, and she seems to drag out everything - and I mean clean and dirty laundry, every shoe in the house, dishes, toys, dolls, crayons, board games, diapers, craft supplies, garage sale stuff, my bras, and the Goodwill pile - just to lay it under my feet while I'm doing dishes.
She's insistent on cooking with me and complaining while we do it. She wants to be in my lap when it's not a good time. Or nowhere near it when I need her to be.
Car rides are hell. I've given up even trying the no-go nap because it was so miserable it set us up for complete failure the rest of the day.
We do "quiet time" now - books or a short PBS video so I don't want to strangle her, myself, or a stuffed bunny by the end of the day - and we go to bed earlier.
And she's still losing it at the slightest provocation.
Now, this week, it's getting better.
Apparently, my "We ask nicely and use words" message is getting through because when she wants something - "Cackers! Cackers!"(add in a hit/scream/wail/flop about) - and I ask her, "How do we ask nicely when we'd like something?" she will immediately pipe in with "Cackers, please! No whine!" while shaking her little index finger and grinning.
Oh lordy be.
Tantrums are much more likely to only occur when she's hungry or tired. So I have to stay on top of her meals and snacks, plus really work that unwinding quiet time, to keep them to a minimum. But it's working.
Her sister, who is sleeping in in the morning like a lot of newborns do, is suffering a bit in the sleep department, as we are still going to parks, playdates, story time, and tumbling class every week because Ella is perfectly behaved when out of the house. Not ideal, but it's working.
Now, this means they both get testy around lunch time, and I'm then dragging them both out of the car as they scream, trying to shove lunch in the mouth of one with one hand while nursing the other, all while using every fiber of my being not to yell at the thrashing toddler, "Fine! Just sit there and scream! I don't care! Shut up or don't shut up! Just leave me alone!"
That seems to be happening less and less, though, so it's working.
But, still, even with that lovely scenario above happening as recently as Monday, it is getting better.
Ella is slowly but surely returning to talking through things.
If she needs touch, she will ask to "cuddle." She's used how "Sissy" fits into the routine. She's stopped having fits over nursing and has actually stopped nursing entirely, probably because, as she says "Sissy eats milkies and nurses; no teef," while "Ella eats muffins/can-a-lope/soup because big sishter; Ella's teef."
Perfectly timed with her sister's arrival - along with her loss of the nap and weaning - she also cut all four of her canine teeth and hit a growth spurt.
We were screwed even if she'd adapted beautifully to her sister being here.
But once we realized it, and I started feeding her more and pushing the snacks and teething tablets, things got better, too.
She adores "pee-school" and gets that special time with me doing projects while Gloribeth naps. She's used to being lifted into the bath, car, or bed while I have the baby in the wrap.
We are getting there, ugly though the journey may be.
***
I won't lie to you all, as brutal as the honesty is.
I feared this; I almost expected it.
I wanted another half-year between my first and second because I knew Ella. I knew her personality and what she needed and emotionally looked for.
And I knew this would be rough.
And it was; it is.
It's hard on me, too.
I have to choose throughout the day one child over the other.
The baby has to be fed, and she's at my breast, rendering me useless at making Ella her muffins in that moment. Ella has to have a clean diaper on. Her sister has to cry sometimes so I can deal with the poop up against my first-born's sensitive skin.
I hate it. That's my hang-up; I get that. But it's not really ingrained in my parenting style, and though I know they both are perfectly healthy and fine, I hate it enough that it drives me to worry and trip over my own guilt.
Am I making eye contact with Glory enough? Am I hugging Ella with both arms unencumbered enough? Am I making her enough special morning pancakes, or singing enough lullabies to my bambino?
Am I?
I have no idea.
We're a month into this journey, and I'm just a little nose poking out above the water, breathing for the rest of me, which isn't floating by a long shot.
But we're not entirely sinking, either.
So there's that. Little milestones. Little successes.
It's not pretty. In fact, it's still pretty ugly right now.
But it's working.
Friday, March 22, 2013
The Post-Partum Pudge
I'll be honest with you all yet again.
My post-partum experience with Ella was less than ideal, as I've alluded to before.
I had borderline baby-blues/post-partum depression. Nursing was horrible. I felt completely inadequate and lost and, honestly, afraid I was going to ruin this little bundle of love I'd wanted so badly.
So, once I'd come to grips with Gloribeth's pregnancy, I began planning my post-partum experience right then and there.
Placenta pills. Help with Ella. A chest freezer full of food.
You live, and you learn, and baby, I had learned the hard way.
Now, as I told you all, Gloribeth's birth was completely different. She wasn't born in the water. She was born fast. She was bigger, and unlike with Ella, where I fell asleep in between contractions and was super dazed and confused when she was born, this time, I was aware of everything. I remember it all.
There was no looking down to find an infant in my arms, shocked. I saw her head come out, and I reached down for her as soon as I'd pushed enough of her out to scoop her up to me.
In general, while I still think I prefer laboring in the water, and that made Ella's labor smoother, pushing was better with Gloribeth. It was super-fast, a huge relief, and not as painful as the contractions.
But I paid for that later.
You see, with Ella, I experienced absolutely no soreness. No pain. Nothing after she was born. I could have run several miles. I felt absolutely fine. Within hours of giving birth, I was jogging to the car for our bags.
This time? Not so much.
Now, I didn't feel bad. But I was sore. I actually pulled my groin pushing Little Miss Chunky-Pants out. Because I did it so fast and because I was in an awkward position they couldn't get me to move from. I also had a bruised tailbone and sit bones.
I couldn't put much weight at all on the right side of my body because of the injury, so getting dressed and sitting on the toilet were loads of fun, let me tell you.
So there was that.
Then there were the after-pains - the uterine contractions you feel after birth as your uterus shrinks back to it's normal size.
I didn't even feel them a bit with Ella.
But this time, well, yowza.
I kept wondering why the midwife told me I could take painkillers if I wanted to. In fact, she kept pushing it a bit, telling me it was OK to start a few days of Motrin and ibuprofen if I needed to.
Well, I didn't follow her instructions. I didn't have Motrin or ibuprofen in the house. I took nothing, figuring I'd had two babies without drugs. What could possibly be so bad?
Holy mother of all cramps. My uterus felt like it was on fire for three days, especially when I nursed Glory.
And boy, did she nurse. Gloribeth had a textbook latch, unlike her sister, and took to the breast within minutes of being born. She never left it, in fact.
She was never lazy and lethargic like Ella, refusing to nurse frequently so we had to wake her up and make her mad in order to latch her on.
No. Not this baby.
She was born to breast-feed. My milk came in under two days, too. So jaundice? Ha!
Not even a slight tinge of yellow. She was newborn-pink and plump from the get-go.
It was worth the mean after-pains and the week of limping about because of a pulled groin not to have to worry about nursing issues or stress or taking her to and from the pediatrician to get her bilirubin tested every day like we did with Ella.
Though I think I can credit a large part of the ease this time around to my placenta pills.
I'll be honest. From the second Gloribeth was born, I felt like myself. With Ella, I had her and was changed. It took me a while to come out of that fog.
So, I don't know. Maybe I just didn't have the issues this second time around. Or maybe those darn placenta pills work.
I know, at the very least, they helped my energy level. People call it a "placenta high," but basically, it's like taking a cup of coffee. I assume it helped regulate my hormones, but I know it's helped my energy, which, for me, is a fantastic coping mechanism.
When she was less than a week old, I had to be on my feet, taking care of her and Ella, cooking and cleaning and doing what-not. So I needed those little capsules. I really did.
What I didn't need? My post-pregnancy body back.
I remember it with Ella. Or, now I do. The extra skin and the lack of muscle tone in my trunk. The stretched out hips.
It's not pretty. And it happened again.
But this time, I cannot wait to take the weight off. Gloribeth is 3 weeks old, and I am haunted by it. I don't like my body, and though my pre-baby clothes fit, they don't fit well.
I really want to hide, and I'm kind of horrified to be seen by anyone right now. I feel the urge to apologize. I went to a playdate last week and actually texted the host beforehand, "I'm so sorry I'm in yoga pants. But none of my regular pants fit well yet. I'm so sorry I look so gross and large."
Part of my anxiety is that, right now, these two little girls are pretty darn demanding. And exercise is going to be smooshed in here or there.
For me, it's a little bewildering and unnerving.
Because I didn't tear, and because my bleeding has pretty much stopped - one post-partum where I don't seem to have any issues with either birth, thank God - I'm back on it on it. I have to be, so I can stop groaning at myself every time I look at a mirror.
Exercise and I are going to get good and acquainted once again. Even if that means working out at midnight.
***
I couldn't be happier it all turned out so well. Physically, at least.
Emotionally, well, we are getting there.
Yesterday was a rough day, for instance.
There was yelling and screaming and barely restrained anger at my toddler. I cried; she cried. I really wondered how I'm supposed to do this night after night.
Ella's and my relationship has literally been rocky since Gloribeth came into the house.
I feel like a horrible mother, but right now, I'm massively failing her, or so it seems. She's exhausted and acting out. She's pretty much weaned, but using nursing to get her way when nothing else works. She's almost 2 and stubborn as all get out, and she knows it.
I am either crying tears and asking her to forgive me for yelling, or wondering how soon I can ship her to Toddler Boarding School.
Anyway, that deserves a post all it's own. As does Gloribeth, who is angelically napping next to me.
She really is angelic, too.
That's the best part.
And that's the part that takes all this post-partum pudge with it.
My post-partum experience with Ella was less than ideal, as I've alluded to before.
I had borderline baby-blues/post-partum depression. Nursing was horrible. I felt completely inadequate and lost and, honestly, afraid I was going to ruin this little bundle of love I'd wanted so badly.
So, once I'd come to grips with Gloribeth's pregnancy, I began planning my post-partum experience right then and there.
Placenta pills. Help with Ella. A chest freezer full of food.
You live, and you learn, and baby, I had learned the hard way.
Now, as I told you all, Gloribeth's birth was completely different. She wasn't born in the water. She was born fast. She was bigger, and unlike with Ella, where I fell asleep in between contractions and was super dazed and confused when she was born, this time, I was aware of everything. I remember it all.
There was no looking down to find an infant in my arms, shocked. I saw her head come out, and I reached down for her as soon as I'd pushed enough of her out to scoop her up to me.
In general, while I still think I prefer laboring in the water, and that made Ella's labor smoother, pushing was better with Gloribeth. It was super-fast, a huge relief, and not as painful as the contractions.
But I paid for that later.
You see, with Ella, I experienced absolutely no soreness. No pain. Nothing after she was born. I could have run several miles. I felt absolutely fine. Within hours of giving birth, I was jogging to the car for our bags.
This time? Not so much.
Now, I didn't feel bad. But I was sore. I actually pulled my groin pushing Little Miss Chunky-Pants out. Because I did it so fast and because I was in an awkward position they couldn't get me to move from. I also had a bruised tailbone and sit bones.
I couldn't put much weight at all on the right side of my body because of the injury, so getting dressed and sitting on the toilet were loads of fun, let me tell you.
So there was that.
Then there were the after-pains - the uterine contractions you feel after birth as your uterus shrinks back to it's normal size.
I didn't even feel them a bit with Ella.
But this time, well, yowza.
I kept wondering why the midwife told me I could take painkillers if I wanted to. In fact, she kept pushing it a bit, telling me it was OK to start a few days of Motrin and ibuprofen if I needed to.
Well, I didn't follow her instructions. I didn't have Motrin or ibuprofen in the house. I took nothing, figuring I'd had two babies without drugs. What could possibly be so bad?
Holy mother of all cramps. My uterus felt like it was on fire for three days, especially when I nursed Glory.
And boy, did she nurse. Gloribeth had a textbook latch, unlike her sister, and took to the breast within minutes of being born. She never left it, in fact.
She was never lazy and lethargic like Ella, refusing to nurse frequently so we had to wake her up and make her mad in order to latch her on.
No. Not this baby.
She was born to breast-feed. My milk came in under two days, too. So jaundice? Ha!
Not even a slight tinge of yellow. She was newborn-pink and plump from the get-go.
It was worth the mean after-pains and the week of limping about because of a pulled groin not to have to worry about nursing issues or stress or taking her to and from the pediatrician to get her bilirubin tested every day like we did with Ella.
Though I think I can credit a large part of the ease this time around to my placenta pills.
I'll be honest. From the second Gloribeth was born, I felt like myself. With Ella, I had her and was changed. It took me a while to come out of that fog.
So, I don't know. Maybe I just didn't have the issues this second time around. Or maybe those darn placenta pills work.
I know, at the very least, they helped my energy level. People call it a "placenta high," but basically, it's like taking a cup of coffee. I assume it helped regulate my hormones, but I know it's helped my energy, which, for me, is a fantastic coping mechanism.
When she was less than a week old, I had to be on my feet, taking care of her and Ella, cooking and cleaning and doing what-not. So I needed those little capsules. I really did.
What I didn't need? My post-pregnancy body back.
I remember it with Ella. Or, now I do. The extra skin and the lack of muscle tone in my trunk. The stretched out hips.
It's not pretty. And it happened again.
But this time, I cannot wait to take the weight off. Gloribeth is 3 weeks old, and I am haunted by it. I don't like my body, and though my pre-baby clothes fit, they don't fit well.
I really want to hide, and I'm kind of horrified to be seen by anyone right now. I feel the urge to apologize. I went to a playdate last week and actually texted the host beforehand, "I'm so sorry I'm in yoga pants. But none of my regular pants fit well yet. I'm so sorry I look so gross and large."
Part of my anxiety is that, right now, these two little girls are pretty darn demanding. And exercise is going to be smooshed in here or there.
For me, it's a little bewildering and unnerving.
Because I didn't tear, and because my bleeding has pretty much stopped - one post-partum where I don't seem to have any issues with either birth, thank God - I'm back on it on it. I have to be, so I can stop groaning at myself every time I look at a mirror.
Exercise and I are going to get good and acquainted once again. Even if that means working out at midnight.
***
I couldn't be happier it all turned out so well. Physically, at least.
Emotionally, well, we are getting there.
Yesterday was a rough day, for instance.
There was yelling and screaming and barely restrained anger at my toddler. I cried; she cried. I really wondered how I'm supposed to do this night after night.
Ella's and my relationship has literally been rocky since Gloribeth came into the house.
I feel like a horrible mother, but right now, I'm massively failing her, or so it seems. She's exhausted and acting out. She's pretty much weaned, but using nursing to get her way when nothing else works. She's almost 2 and stubborn as all get out, and she knows it.
I am either crying tears and asking her to forgive me for yelling, or wondering how soon I can ship her to Toddler Boarding School.
Anyway, that deserves a post all it's own. As does Gloribeth, who is angelically napping next to me.
She really is angelic, too.
That's the best part.
And that's the part that takes all this post-partum pudge with it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)