Still What I'm Needing

I'm sitting here, at 8:30 p.m., still in my parent's house.

Ella and I will be here through the rest of the week, as planned.

Though the Christmas festivities are over, I'm not ready to go home. Tactically, right now, there is no point.

My husband is working 24-7 and has been since he headed back home right after Christmas. And there's no work for me to do, as no clients are interested in hitting the gym during vacation hours.

Which, in short, is fine by me.

To be perfectly honest, I'm in no mood to go back to work yet. I wasn't really happy at work earlier in the month, either.

I was just, for lack of a less cliche phrase, burned out.

I was getting irritated with clients, with my boss, with myself. It was like pulling teeth to smile and come up with interesting and effective work for my clients.

And the rest of my world felt the same way, too.

I was getting massively irritated with everything. Things that are petty and don't normally bother me had me fretting. Things that I normally brush off had me in tears. I was just feeling the itch - the itch to run and get away from my normal life.

I truly adore my life. But it is exhausting. I am married to a military man; my life is lonely sometimes. And in the same instant, it's not. There's an extremely active community and friend's circle I have there. I have a shining, energetic daughter. I have a successful, upstanding husband.

But all of those things can be taxing.

They wear out the extroverted aside of me. They make me want to hide away and beg everyone to leave me alone. They make me resent the fact that no one helps me change diapers or do baths or gives me 20 minutes to take a shower alone almost ever. And it's not like anyone can help that.

But it doesn't change the fact that sometimes, I'm done. I'm holding onto the end of my rope, quickly losing energy and about ready to give up the fight.

Thank God, Christmas came to my rescue.

I got on that plane back on my birthday, and, honestly, didn't look back.

I just needed to be away from my house, my job, my life.

It's the reason I haven't blogged in over a week; I had to be away from that, too.

Thirteen days in, and I'm starting to feel my old self returning.

I'm excited to organize and implement all the toys and activities Ella received for Christmas. I'm starting to get revved up about our move in the next two to three months. I'm beginning to think up amazing New Year's workouts for my mommy clients.

I'm blogging.

Like a lingering but slowly improving cough, I'm starting to recover.

Maybe it's a sign of age. Maybe it's a sign of motherhood. Maybe it's a sign of the fact that I honestly have gotten to a point in my life where I don't give two hoots what anyone thinks about me or my family.

But just as quickly as I was done, I'm starting to be, well, undone.

Because this Christmas? This Christmas I needed. It was as crucial as a blood tranfusion.

My patience was shot. My energy was shot. Life felt like I was picking at the scab I'd been putting over my own exhaustion and needs for a while.

So, I'm grateful I'm still gone. That I'm still at my parents, visiting with childhood friends and meeting their babies and having them meet mine. I needed this to re-charge.

And to be completely honest, right now, I'm still needing it.

***

This isn't the pick-me-up, happy Christmas recaps others are posting. I have one of those. Indeed, our Christmas was magical. Everything is better with a baby, but Christmas? Well, it's like Christmas on steroids.

I'll get that up, eventually.

But for now, we're still making memories and living in the altered, therapeutic state of a relaxed vacation.

I'll be back right after the New Year, so until then, I wish you all a Happy 2012.

May we all re-charge and rejuvenate during these last few days of 2011.

***

Happy Wednesday, everyone!

Another Year Forgotten

Last week, my dad called me.

Knowing I'd be arriving into town today - a Thursday - we asked, "So, we were thinking of having Grandma and Grandpa over on the Friday or Saturday after you get here for some birthday cake."

There was a long pause.

For the life of me, I couldn't figure out what he was talking about.

I think I even said, "But why, Dad? Grandma's birthday's in November and Grandpa's isn't until after Christmas."

The long pause continued. I mean, we're talking easily 60 to 75 seconds of me going, "What the heck is my Dad thinking?"

Until, finally, the poor guy managed to utter, "Uh, Brittany, 27 years ago..."

And then I remembered.

It's my birthday. Thursday - today - Dec. 15? It's my stinkin' birthday.

And I, honest to goodness, forgot.

I have been so wrapped up in all other aspects of my life, plus caring for this handful of a baby I've got, that, truthfully, I can't believe a year has passed, and I'm another year older. It seems largely insignificant, in the grand scheme of things.

It's so not important in my own mind that, if my father hadn't spoken up, I'd likely have let the day pass with no more than a "Hmm. There's something I'm forgetting about today..."

My mother says this is simply because I have a child now. Or, in her words, "You've ceased to be important."

I'm pretty sure she's referring to my importance in my own mind, though make no mistake about it, when I hop off that plane today, she's going straight for her grand-daughter.

Any birthday wishes I get will only be an afterthought.

Still, I suppose she's right.

Heck, I joked last month that I'd like cloth diapers and some wooden toys for Christmas.

Talk about a major priority shift.

The skinny, toned, childless 21 year old I used to be would be so ashamed.

But then again, when your every worry and concern is wrapped up in everything your baby needs - not to mention bills and laundry and the current flu making the rounds among our neighborhood - the fancy gifts and a fabulous cake aren't ranking that high on the totem pole for me this year.

Who knows? Maybe they never will again.

So, here's to 27; the year I realized I'm no longer important and that birthdays are no longer a big deal.

If you even remember them, that is.

***

Yep. Today's my birthday. I'm a year older.

I don't feel any older or wiser, though I suppose I am. Older, anyway. Wiser is largely up for debate these days.

I am, in fact, celebrating by braving the airports with an infant today. (Thanks for your tips yesterday, by the way!)

And, maybe, my grandparents will share some cake with me this weekend.

Which I'm sure it will be accompanied by a huffy, unsatisfied sigh.

It'll be the sound of the skinny, toned, childless 21 year old I used to be rolling her eyes in exasperation and defeat.

Poor girl. These days, she never gets to come out and play.

Not even on her birthday.

***

Happy Thursday, everyone!

Up, Up and Away (Goes My Brain)

I am so excited that tomorrow, Ella and I are heading to my parents' house for a little more than two weeks for the holidays.

And by "excited," I actually mean that I'm about ready to keel over and throw up from the sheer anticipation of the horror that may or may not occur while Ella and I attempt to make said trip.

You see, tomorrow, I fly.

Up, up and away in an airplane.

With a 6 month old. Alone.

There isn't enough tranquilizers in the world that will likely get me through this.

First, consider the fact that I am not a good flyer by myself. I get a bit doomsday surrounded by that many people hurtling through the air in a metal tube.

Add an infant - a loud, chunky, active infant - to the mix? Well, you do the math.

I've been overly preparing in my head for over a month; surveying my packing list, buying a supremo baby carrier, taking the teeny-tiny, easily fold-able stroller out for a spin.

I've read Web sites on flying with infants. I over-analyzed airline schedules to find the optimal time for Ella to be airborne and hopefully happy.

I've prayed countless times that I get an empty seat next to me on the plane so my child doesn't kick someone while she's nursing.

But now? It's almost D-Day. And I'm. Not. Ready.

I keep picturing a packed plane filled with two kinds of people: The baby-haters who glare at you even though your child is sleeping peacefully and roll their eyes and sneer in disgust if they have the unfortunate coincidence of being seated next to you. Or the lecherous, single frat-boy, whose all, "Oooh! She's breast-feeding! Free boobie show for me!"

Thankfully, from drop-off to pick-up, I shouldn't have more than eight hours of travel. Blessedly, I only have to make one connection, as well.

The bad news is, that connection happens to be in purgatory itself: The Atlanta airport. In other words, The Place All Planes Get Grounded For No Explicable Reason Causing You to Live on Subway Sandwiches and Sleep on Benches for About Four Days.

With a baby, mind you.

Don't forget that little nugget of truth: I have to do all this with a baby.

A baby who has no attention span. A baby who likes to whip off my nursing cover, pop off the boob, and give everyone in a 5-foot radius a breast-milk shower.

A baby who has never flown before.

I am sitting here, sweating profusely, at the thought of all this.

I'm already picturing myself walking off the plane, handing my father Ella, and yelling over my shoulder, "Dad, I need a stiff drink and a nap. Stat."

So, all of you seasoned mama flyers, who are rolling your eyes and guffawing at me right now, listen up.

I need your advice. Your wisdom. Your Jedi mind-tricks to getting a baby through two airports and two flights with ease and grace and minimal frizzing of the hair and armpit sweat.

Tell me your secrets.

But don't tell me to give her a bottle or a pacifier. Because Ella hates both of those.

And don't tell me to relax. Because it's too late for that.

I'm panicking, and only your sound, wise advice can stop me.

I need good, concrete tips. Something along the lines of "Bribe the flight attendants with some singles so they can arrange for you to sit in your own private row whilst feeding you endless amounts of Perrier and organic grapes."

Or, you know, tell me how to get through security without losing my mind or my purse.

Wherever your gifts lie.

***

Happy Wednesday, everyone!

Deck the Halls with Jugs and Holly

We decorated our Christmas tree on Thanksgiving Day.

Normally, I'm all, "No! No! Don't rush the season."

But when I'm whipping out the Christmas decor for 12 hours straight and spending money on a Frasier fir and leaving halfway through the month of December to visit family?

Well, we can deck the halls as soon as I see fit.

So, yes, on Turkey Day, we were singing carols and showing Ella the advent wreath.

As any baby would be, she was properly non-plussed.

But we kept on trying, dangling her our snowmen and Santa Clauses and ornaments we loved of every shape, color and size right in front of her poor little face.

Finally, she'd had enough.

Girlfriend wanted to nurse, and so, I stopped hanging balls and bells and grabbed her up, turning to the hubs and saying, "Can you just put those last few ornaments on the tree for me?"

He obliged, talking to me while I nursed Ella and ducked her wandering fingers, which like to pinch my nose and any other skin-covered surface she gets her hands on as of late.

He tied and tucked ornaments in all the right places until, finally, he stopped.

In his hand, pinched with semi-disgust and question, he held one of my childhood ornaments.

"Babe, are you sure you want me to hang this one up?"

With barely a glance, I replied, "Yeah, hang all those up."

But he didn't oblige. Instead, he asked again, "You really want to put this on our tree this year?"

Again, I quipped back, "Yes! I want everything I pulled out right there to go on the tree this year."

But he didn't budge. He didn't even move the outstretched ornament in direction of the giant fir in our living room.

I watched him, puzzled, eyes questioning, until finally, I'd had enough.

"Dude! Just hang it up there! Del Del [my God-mother] cross-stitched that ornament for me the year I was born. Of course I want it on our tree! It's been on every tree I've ever had!"

The look on his face would have surprised a court jester.

"Really, Del Del knit this?"

Then, he turned the ornament to face him, wonderingly, and began to laugh.

"Oh, now I see what it says," he explained, seeming relieved. "It says '1984,' the year you were born! That makes a lot more sense. I can see now why you want it hung. It just says '1984!'"

I, undoubtedly, looked at him as if he'd lost his ever-loving mind. My eyebrows were raised, and I was giving them the whole, "Really? Are you that dense?" eye stare, when he finally managed to explain himself.

Or so I thought.

"Before, when I just looked at it, that word knit below the teddy bear, read like 'Jugs,'" he said. "I thought the ornament said 'Jugs.'"
Anyone want to figure that one out?

***

I love my husband, but sometimes, I sincerely wonder where his head has gone.

So tell me, do you have any confusing ornaments on your tree this year?

***

Here's hoping your halls are decked with a whole host of (jug-free and wholly appropriate) ornaments this Christmas.

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

It's Been Six Months

My baby girl,

Today, you are six months old.

It's been six months since you joined us in this world. Half a year, baby.

Look at you, just one day old.

You're well on your way these days.

My, how things have changed in six months.

You sit up unassisted and have been for almost the entire month. It's like all of sudden, you wanted to do it. So you did. And expertly at that. You almost never fall over. It's impressive. If you had your way, you'd sit up all the time. It is far and wide your new favorite thing.

Rocking your Packer diaper in support of your Pop-Pop's favorite team, bringing your total of custom football cloth-diapers to four.

You also, finally, roll over frequently. You always go back to front, even though you know how to do front to back, and it's far easier. Apparently, you like to the road less traveled.

Thanks to the fact that you are strong and proficient on your belly, you also can get yourself up on your hands and knees and rock for a bit before flopping forward. That, along with the fact that you can stand while holding onto us, makes me realize we're basically a seconds away from you crawling away.

Can this really be happening?

I am not ready.

You are an excellent communicator these days, too.

You reach for things you want - which is everything. You hold your hands up when you want to be picked up, and you're able to handle blocks and rattles and teethers with ease these days. Which is lucky for you, because you can now expertly wield anything well enough to get it into your mouth. I adore it, until you try to eat the dog's ear or your own poop, both of which have almost happened this month.

Ella's dreaming of a naked Christmas

You also mimic really well. You'll say "Hi!" in response to my "Hi!" for about four minutes straight. And when I look at you and emphatically pronounce "Ma-ma!" you purse your lips together and sometimes eke out a "Mwa!"

Your daddy is convinced you're saying "Mama" already, as, when you start to fuss, you normally yell, "Ma-ma! Ma!" I'm thinking it's a fluke, but I won't be upset if he's right.

Sleep-wise, you've gotten better and better. Most nights, you're up to nurse only once, for about five minutes. Sometimes, you'll wake up a second time, but all I need to do is cuddle you into me, and you're right back out. You still prefer to be in bed with us, but you start out the night in your own crib. You nap there, too.

When you nap, that is.

Lately, you seem to feel like you're missing out on life, and I have to positively wear you out before you'll fall asleep and so you'll nap longer than 30 minutes these days.

Thanks to your daddy's schedule, it's been just you and I a lot this month. We do everything together, by virtue of that fact. You've been a trooper during Christmas shopping, especially since you can now sit in the cart. You like to ride around Target, for instance, and bounce and swing your legs and smile wide at everyone who stops and gushes over you - you're very popular with the Target set.

You celebrated your first Thanksgiving with a whole host of sailors. Your daddy and I hosted a dinner for all the single sailors here on base we knew who couldn't get home to family. You spent the entire seven hours they were here smiling and cheesing it up with them. Your appeal is amazing; you even get hardened bachelors to fawn over you. And, like I told your daddy, if I'd had a video camera of them all playing with you, I could have them all married off in a second.

Unfortunately, you didn't get any turkey or taters this holiday. You're still only on breast-milk straight from the source. In fact, as of late, thanks to you hitting your six-month growth spurt a week or so ago, you're back at the breast much more than you used to be. I also think you're teething while you grow. So it's made you want to nurse for comfort more, and in general, it makes you way more clingy.

I don't mind holding you, but your face, if I dare to put your down for too long or too late in the day? Well, it's heart-breaking. You already have a flair for the drama. You pout, fuss, and yell on command. Then turn it off as soon as you get what you want.

I can already tell you're going to be a skilled negotiator; you're quite the personality. And stubborn, to boot. Plus, as your great-grandmother said after seeing you via Skype, "You can see the wheels turning on that one."
Oh, yes, baby girl. You're a smarty who is constantly observing, maneuvering, and thinking. In other words, we're in deep, amazingly blessed trouble.

Never has been my heart been so full as when I'm watching you grow and change. When you babble, it's like music to my ears. I still watch you sleep, and I still tear up. This month's been busy and had some rough moments, but you have made every second of it worth it.
I am so honored to be your mommy; when God gave me the ability to bring you into this world half a year ago, I thought it was the best gift I'd ever received. Now, watching you grow and learn and light up over every new discovery has made that gift multiply in ways I never expected.

I love you, my precious one.

Love,
Your mama

A Clarification? An Apology? A Clari-logy? An Apol-ification?

I expected the response I got yesterday.

I did.

And thus, I am still making my way through the e-mails and responding to each and everyone of you with respect, whether you agreed with me or not. (If you didn't attach an e-mail address to your profile, but would like a response, please note below. Many of you would be surprised that I have rather kind things to say to you. I even agree with some of you that weren't too kind to me.)

That being said, I do realize that my "blog persona" is not really anything like my real-life self.

But I'm not so sure all of you realize that.

The fact of the matter is, in person, I'm straight-up boring. I'm not at all confrontational. I'm really happy being me, with my family, by myself.

But I am a trained journalist. I do, and always have, written with authority. It's something ingrained in me; I can't get rid of it.

I'm not a quiet person, but on paper (or the Internet?), I'm even louder.

In my real life, though, I really don't take myself that seriously. At all.

In fact, if you met me in real life, you'd probably not even label me such an extremist, attachment parent.

After all, I love to wear my baby, but I also adore my stroller. Ella and I jog in it every day, and, well, sometimes? I just do not want to deal with the hassle of strapping her into the Ergo carrier.

And, yes, we co-sleep. But my baby also sleeps in her crib for at least the first half of the night, most nights. I have stuff to do around my house, and sometimes, my husband and I like to have a few moments alone without a baby. So into the crib she goes.

And, yeah, I don't let my baby cry it out. But there has been a day or two where I have literally yelled in my infants face, "Please SHUT UP ALREADY!" then put her in her bed and closed the door so I could have a few moments to compose myself. Can't say I'm proud of it, but I birthed a stubborn child, and sometimes, she gets the best of me.

The fact of the matter is, sometimes, I just need a moment without Ella. I plan my week around when I can go to the grocery store. Without her.

And, yeah, I love breast-feeding. But sometimes, I'd give my right arm so that she'd just take a darn bottle of pumped milk already. So I could leave her for more than 90 minutes without guilt. So maybe someone other than me could put her to bed one night in this lifetime.

I hold Ella a lot, but she also spends time in her exer-saucer. She's with me all day, but some part of those days are spent in her bouncy seat.

I don't vaccinate my child, but man alive, have I had a moment or two where I've stared at her and thought, "Dear God, is she getting whooping cough? Have I gone and killed my baby?"

I am not perfect. Not in a long shot.

I've yelled at my husband because he can leave her to go to work. And I can't.

I've cried tears of frustration because I just want a darn latte, but I can't have dairy or caffeine, thanks to the fact that I've, quite honestly, over-researched what should and shouldn't be consumed while breast-feeding. (Ignorance can be such bliss.)

And yesterday? Well, yesterday I literally walked around with my yoga pants on backwards. For six straight hours.

The best part was, the last hour? I had already realized it, and I was just too lazy to go whip them around. I even thought, "Oh, heck, who cares? Ella came out of me. It's not like she cares that the butt of my pants is now giving me one very saggy crotch shot."

I poke fun at myself a lot, too.

I had a dear friend - who full on told me she loved her epidural-births and wouldn't have it any other way (to which I responded, "Good for you!" for the record) - who asked me for a teething solution for her son that's Ella's age.

My response?

"Well, I can get you an amber teething necklace to borrow, but you know me and my crazy hippie crap. Even I don't know if it actually works sometimes."

We laughed while she gave her son a bottle of milk while I nursed my daughter. We get along perfectly fine and often don't discuss our differences. But when we do, it's with the utmost respect for each other.

***

I'm also a walking oxymoron. At a cookie swap next week, I'm making a healthy chocolate chip cookie.

And pound cake. With three sticks of butter.

It's horrible for you. And it's amazing all in the same bite.

Heck, I think I'm wrong for eating it. But sometimes, well, a girl's just wrong. I'm not scared of that.

My own mother had a C-section, three of them, actually. That's how I was born. And I have an awesome mother. She and I just made different choices. Her right was not my right, and her wrong was not my wrong, and, well, that's OK. That, for me, doesn't make a lick of difference in how good of a parent my own mother was.

Why should it? Our status as good mothers is not contingent on conclusions we reach or choices we make, different or alike.

Love does.

***

The fact of the matter is, I don't feel threatened when people think I'm wrong.

I had a woman tell me a few weeks back, upon learning that my child was un-vaccinated at a mutual friend's play-date, to "keep your filthy little germ-breeder" away from her.

I was kind of shocked and appalled at her tone. But I didn't really take offense that she thought I was out-and-out wrong not to vaccinate Ella, as she proceeded to expound on later.

Honestly, I've always felt that I'm secure enough in my decisions that people's disagreements with me don't bother me.

In fact, as many of you stated yesterday, it's only when I doubt myself that I often find myself wounded by people I believe are judging me.

As I get older, that happens less and less.

I also find myself growing more and more confident in my choices. And more and more imperfect, as a whole. I am woefully human, after all.

I don't know. Maybe I'm not sensitive enough. Maybe I'm lacking an empathy gene or something.

I know I hurt people's feelings yesterday, and whether or not you believe me, that was never my intention.

Did I want to make a point? Sure.

But the fact of the matter is, I am too darn busy with my own life to notice whether or not someone chooses to formula-feed their child. In fact, most of the time, if I actually notice someone with formula in hand, I assume it's because they have a need for it; contrary to popular belief, I don't judge based on snap assumptions.

And, when weighing a lot of individual situations, I can see why something I think is wrong in some instances - let's just say formula, again, for continuities sake - can be the right choice in others. It's for reasons like this that I don't concern myself with others' choices on a day-to-day basis, unless they expressly ask for my opinion.

For instance, I have never once left a negative comment on any blog I read, even when they disagree with me, name-call my methods and parents like me, or use a tone I find offensive. (And I have seen many of those posts. And yeah, they weren't so nice. But I truly don't feel the urge to call the writer out on that, either.)

If I really don't like the material, I will stop reading. Some of you did that here yesterday, and that is totally your right. I don't have a problem with that.

But very often, I simply think that my issue with what's written and my opinion of the author's tone is simply that - my opinion. It's coming from my perspective. That isn't the writer's problem that I took it that way, and often enough, I will continue to read. Unless you list my name off word for word, I don't take anything personally.

In other words, yes, I have convictions, but unless you broach those convictions with me, I don't bring it up.

Though the woman who saw me nursing my baby the other day sure did when she immediately quipped, "Isn't she a little old for that?"

But other than being shocked, I didn't really reply.

On my blog, I write about what's important to me, but in the real world, unless asked, I don't just start spouting off about it.

In fact, I'm much more likely to comment on your adorable baby's outfit - What can I say? I'm a sucker for a romper! - than ask what if you had a vaginal delivery.

Because honestly, who just out-and-out asks a woman, "So, uh, did that baby of yours come out of your lady bits?"

***

I"m really not that intense in person.

I'm just a mom trying to survive.

I'm just a mom who honest-to-goodness never wants to hurt anybody.

I don't think every decision I make has a right or wrong answer. There are multiple ways to discipline children, for instance. I don't think there is a right or wrong there, short of, say, beating your kids to a pulp.

There are also multiple ways to diaper babies. Even though I use cloth, that is a preference, not a position of correct-ness. No right or wrong there.

And there are also multiple ways to put kids down to sleep - I love co-sleeping, but I don't think someone is wrong for putting a newborn in a crib instead.

Yes, there are other things I don't agree with, based on the research I've done and the experiences I've had.

There are certain things I think are right and certain things I think are wrong. In parenting. In life, as well.

I assume the same of all us.

I am not shocked that some of you fervently held to your parenting methods yesterday, though they differ from mine. In fact, I applaud you for that, whether you called me names or not.

After all, you are the mother. You know what's best for your babies; I have no say when it comes to what you find right or wrong for your family.

I say that openly, honestly, with my whole heart.

But that also leads me to my last question, which isn't rhetorical, though it may sound that way:

If everyone feels so convicted in their choices, why do you truly care what I think, anyway?

***

I do have a serious side.

I like to talk politics and religion. And I have best friends who are in diametrically opposite faiths and political parties than my own.

We ultimately disagree with each other a lot, but we love each other.

I thought that was normal, but I'm getting the impression lately that far more of you all don't talk about differences with those close to you.

I do feel awkward now, knowing that others aren't coming from the same place as me, knowing that others have not debated faith with their college roommates or politics over the Thanksgiving table.

Maybe that's just my family and my friends. That's OK. I come from passionate stock, I suppose.

And it leaks out into my blog, which yesterday, you all read of your own choice.

But even with that, there was no need to participate in friendly dialogue with me. So those of you who did exchange e-mails with me last night, please know that I truly appreciated it and found a few friends in the mix of this controversy, as well.

***

In closing, I say here's to your beliefs. You have them; I support them. Even if I don't agree with them.

No one ever said I had to, anyway.

***

Happy Thursday, everyone!

Right and Wrong

A few days ago, a client of mine, who has a 4 month old, was working with me and telling me all about how little sleep she'd been getting lately.

She was exhausted because she'd been up all night sleep-training her baby. She was letting him cry it out.

And cry it out he did. For hours and hours and hours.

But after three days, she said it was getting better. She excitedly told me, "Last night, he only cried for ten minutes and then was asleep for the rest of the night! What a great idea, right?"

I nodded, smiled, and quickly changed the subject.

And, yet, I was unsettled.

After all, I'd lied to her. I'd acquiesced and agreed with a parenting technique I not only don't use, but wholeheartedly feel is wrong.

Yes, I'll admit it: I think sleep-training infants and letting babies cry it out to get them to sleep through the night is out-and-out wrong.

So why did I agree with that mama? Why did I not speak up? Why, when I'm often asked about certain parenting techniques I totally don't agree with, do I not vocalize how I feel?

Social mores, probably. But more likely, it's the insecure woman inside me who doesn't want to say something that will truly make her unpopular.

But today, I'm putting that on the back shelf.

Today, I'm going to make myself, most likely, quite unpopular.

Today, I'm going to talk about right and wrong.

***

Make no mistake about it; I make the decisions I make for my family and my daughter because I believe they are right.

I breast-feed because I have the ability to, and I truly believe that, if you have the biological ability to breast-feed your child, you should.

It's the right thing to do.

I was able to give birth without the aid of pitocin and an epidural. It wasn't because I thought I was tough. And it wasn't because I thought I had something to prove.

I did it because I think it's the right thing to do; I think that's the right way to give birth.

So, if I believe all that, if I believe those are the right things to do, inherently, I also believe other options are wrong.

Formula-feeding, for one. (For the sake of convenience. Not necessity. There are reasons for formula.)

Or unnecessary interventions in labor and birth. (Again, I use the word "unnecessary" because there are - extremely rare - instances in which inductions and C-sections are medically necessary.)

So there. I said it. I believe the way some women give birth and feed their babies is wrong.

You can commence with the throwing of tomatoes now.

I almost don't blame you. After all, even though I believe it, I don't like how it makes me look.

Immediately, I can feel the bile rise in my throat. The insecurity and fear edge in when I type the word "wrong."

Because I know it sounds intolerant. And I know it inspires everyone who, say, elected for pain-killers in labor and delivery* to hate me a little bit.

With the sentences above, I immediately sound like the worst kind of mother. I sound like a mom who judges other mothers, who looks down on them for making a choice different than mine.

But hold the phone and back up.

That's actually not what I'm saying.

After all, my child is only 6 months old, and I have made several wrong choices already.

We are human; we err. We are, inherently, wrong at times.

Heck, today, I can count at least four things I've done wrong. And it's not even noon yet.

Plus, let's be honest here. I know there are plenty of you out there who think that I'm often wrong.

In fact, some of you who know I do things like, say, co-sleep with my child probably think I'm wrong. Those of you who have sleep-trained your child, and feel good about that decision, probably think that, without a doubt, I am incorrect in how I handle my child at night-time.

I realize that. I do. And, honestly, I'm OK with it. I don't hate you for thinking I'm wrong, and I'm just as likely to want to pal around with you as I would with another mama who co-sleeps just like me.

You don't have to parent like me to be my friend.

Mostly because I didn't enter this parenting gig to be right all the time.

And neither did any of you.

***

Take, for instance, one of my amazing blogger friends Jenny. She had a baby boy right around the time that I had Ella.

Jenny, simply put, rocks. She's a nurse. She's an amazing mother and wife. She's a great girl and kind and sweet and, frankly, if I'm half the woman Jenny is, I'll be thrilled.

Like me, she wears her boy in a baby carrier often and breast-feeds.

She also vaccinates her son.

I, as I've said before, have Ella on a (very) delayed and selective vaccination schedule.

I've read books, articles, health journals, interviews with prominent pediatricians, and untold amounts of research on the subject. And still, I do not agree with the standard vaccination schedule we place on our children today.

I do, indeed, think it is wrong.

Jenny disagrees with me. She's also read books, articles, health journals, interviews with prominent pediatricians, and untold amounts of research on the subject.

She does, indeed, think it is right.

I think she's wrong. She thinks I'm wrong. We both, in essence, think we're the right ones; we're making the right choice for our child.

And, yet, we get along. We're even friends.

How? Why? Is it possible to be close to another mom who has vocally said, "I disagree with you. I think you're wrong." (And yes, we have said that to one another. We have the respectful comments on each other's blogs to prove it.)

So, yes, it is. It is very possible.

Here's the thing: Vaccinating or not vaccinating your child does not make you evil. It doesn't make you a bad parent. It doesn't doom you to an eternity burning in hell.

Vaccinating your child does not dictate your status as a good human being.

There are amazing mothers who formula feed their children, let them cry-it-out, and vaccinate them according to the government's recommended schedule.

They are good people. They are great parents. I like them. Heck, some of them I love.

And, yet, I think they are wrong.

They, in turn, think I'm wrong.

But many think I'm a pretty good person, too. Many are my closest friends, even.

Why?

It's because our moral status is not governed by how we give birth or what we feed our children. Our ability to get into the figurative (or literal) gates of heaven does not come down to whether or not we started our child on a diet of all-organic solids at 9 months or jarred baby-food at 4 months. Our efforts to gain respect and love and companionship from our peers should not fall on the shoulders of the question, "Do you vaccinate your child?"

Yes, I think vaccinating a 2 month old is wrong.

But I don't think it's evil, and I don't think it makes for a bad parent.

I just think it's wrong.

And, yet, I receive flak for that. As do others who speak up for whatever they think is right.

In our permissive culture, it's simply not cool to be that black and white.

To say, "No, I don't believe in that."

To stand up and say, "I won't do that. It's not right."

To call something "wrong."

In a culture where everyone wins, we've forgotten what it's like to make a true, hard, fast decision. We've forgotten what it's like to choose, for ourselves, what's right and stand up for that choice.

And, yet, we do it every day.

Every mother out there makes a decision based on what they think is right.

I do. You do.

We're parents; that's what we do.

We do our research, weigh the pros and cons, and make a choice. A choice we think is right.

It may not be what our neighbors think is right. It may not be what our church thinks is right. It may not be what our doctor, lawyer, or best friend thinks is right.

But we do; we think it's right.

And we think the other options - the things we don't do and won't do - are wrong.

That's life. We cannot live in the gray forever. We cannot waft about saying everything is OK.

If everything was truly OK, we'd never make a decision. About anything, let along our children.

I, for one, don't want to live in the gray. I have made, and will continue to make, decisions I think are right for my child.

I won't apologize for them. I don't owe anyone an apology for making informed choices in what I think is the best interest of my child.

And, in turn, I don't expect a mother who chooses different from me to apologize for that, either.

I respect that mother; I can have play-dates and cookie swaps and hour-long phone conversations with that mother.

I can live next door to her and call her my best friend, even.

She can be wrong; I can be right. She can be right, and I can be wrong.

After all, disagreement is not the same thing as judgment.

Even with right and wrong, we can all still have companionship, dialogue, kid-centered-ness, and support.

That is, after all, motherhood.

Whether we agree with each other or not.

***

Go ahead. You know you want to. Tell me, what do you think is right? Or better yet, what do you think is wrong?

I promise, I won't judge you for it. Even if you out-and-out disagree with me. In fact, I'll probably love you a little more because of it.

***

I'm going conclude this little impromptu series on motherhood tomorrow. Check out Posts #1 and #2 if you missed them.

***

Happy Wednesday, everyone!

Mom Guilt

Every time I put my child down, I feel it.

A twinge. A prick. A knot.

Every time I leave her with my husband for 30 minutes just to go to the grocery store, I feel it.

A twinge. A prick. A knot.

Every time I hear her stir in her sleep, and I don't immediately swoop her up in my arms, I feel it.

A twinge. A prick. A knot.

Every time I drop her off with a much beloved and trusted friend for one single hour, three afternoons a week, so I can teach a spinning class, I feel it.

A twinge. A prick. A knot.

It's guilt.

Plain-jane, old-hat guilt.

I don't know why I feel it. I can't explain it.

After all, my girl likes to sit up and play with her toys and scoot about the floor. She's perfectly happy with my husband and my friend for short periods of time. And nine times out of 10, her bed-time stirrings are hardly anything more than a snort then back off to sleep she goes.

And, yet, I feel it.

The all-consuming, overwhelming guilt.

That guilt that has me living in the world of what-ifs: What if she thinks I've abandoned her? What if she doesn't know how much I love her? What if she resents me for this later?

What if she needs me?

The truth of the matter is, I do everything for my child. I play with her, nurse her, put her to sleep, and, when she wakes up, sleep with her.

I don't mind it; I like it. Thanks to the good, old U.S. of A., and my husband's service to it, I don't really have a choice, anyway.

But that dependence I've created; that need she has to turn to me for everything? Well, it's scary.

Because sometimes, I can't be there. Sometimes, I have to do something else. Sometimes, my daughter will have to be in the care of someone other than her mother.

Two weeks ago, after discussing some routine dental work I had to get done in January, I cried on the phone with my mom. Because I didn't want to go. Because I didn't want to leave my daughter for those few hours at the dentist.

Six months later, I still sometimes pull the car over when she's screaming her head off for me. Because I can't take the thought of her back there, yelling for help, and me not stopping to get to her.

And if I don't? If I just keep driving because we're so close to home or because I know she's simply over-tired? I feel it.

A twinge. A prick. A knot.

At night, when I say a prayer, I always start with, "Lord, please let me daughter know how much I love her." Because I worry every day that she doesn't fully grasp this. That she doesn't feel it.

It's a twinge. A prick. A knot.

The guilt. The ever-present guilt that comes over me because I have done this, that, whatever it is, to my child.

I apologize to her when we go to Target, the grocery store, the bank. I know these aren't fun outings for a baby, and I always feel as if I'd be better off spending that time at home with her, reading books and playing with blocks and practicing our crawling exercises.

We rarely go out to eat at night because her bed-time is so early, and I simply feel it's unfair to make her suffer so we can eat at the new, local dive.

It's the guilt. It's all because of the guilt.

I find myself crying when I change her diaper. Out of the sheer, overwhelming nature of my love for her. Her smiles and laughs and full-body baby gestures bring tears to my eyes, as well.

My heart bursts for this little girl.

But I worry. Oh, how I worry.

I worry I'll disappoint her. That she'll be ashamed of me. That she'll look and question my motives.

I worry that I'm not good enough for her.

The realization that she's all mine - that she'll turn to me one day and say, "Hey, Mom!" hits me over and over and over again.

But the realization that I am a mother? That still feels surreal.

Right now, I just know that the underlying worries never go away. That nothing I have ever done has felt so daunting and so deliberate and so teetering as motherhood.

I almost find myself looking around and waiting for someone to pop up and tell me I'm doing it wrong. To look at me and go, "You're not cut out of this."

Ella makes me happy every day. And that happiness she gives me? Well, I just hope and pray I can give one-tenth of it back to her.

Someone once described it to me as being selfless.

"Motherhood is true selflessness;" I think that was the phrase.

And, yet, that's not a full enough description.

Motherhood is the all-encompassing feeling that you cannot be selfless enough. That everything you eat, drink, do or don't do, say or don't say, use or don't use, will somehow, in some way, affect your child.

In other words, it's a twinge. A prick. A knot.

Even if there's no good reason for it, it's the guilt.

***

I think Mom Guilt is exactly why so many of us struggle with the very issue I described yesterday, i.e., having another child.

Our very nature has us making decisions in the best interest of our child from the moment they come out of the womb. They are always in our mind's eye. After they are born, nothing we do will not be prefaced by a thought of, "But what about the baby?"

It hurts. It's a good pain, most of the time. It's born out of love, after all.

But it hurts.

And sometimes, in weak moments, it wounds. It pounces on us with uncertainty and makes us feel unworthy. It makes us feel alone. It makes us feel like we're failing. That our children will look back one day with disappointment or, worse yet, apathy.

It's a twinge. A prick. A knot.

It's Mom Guilt.

***

Continuing on tomorrow with my mini-series on mommy-hood. Yesterday's post is here.

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

Another One

Last Thursday, at midnight, I got a phone call.

It was my neighbor and good friend down the street; she was in labor.

Quickly, she and her husband, and my hubby and I, sprang into action.

We set up the pack-n-play, and they drove down, installed an additional car-seat into our car, and brought in a laundry basket full of clean, toddler-sized cloth diapers.

Then, my 39-week pregnant friend carried in her almost 2 year old, who was half way between asleep and awake.

She rocked him and tried to put him back down before finally leaving and heading over to the birth center where Ella was born almost 6 months ago.

I heard her leave with tears in my eyes.

I then spent the rest of the evening alternating between my baby and her toddler, neither of whom really slept well, thanks to the middle-of-the-night interruption.

Finally, at 4:30 a.m., we all fell asleep, Ella in bed with me, and our friend's toddler, K, asleep in the pack-n-play, with my husband stretched out on the floor next to it.

It was not yet 7 a.m. when I heard the patter of little, footie-pajama-d feet and saw a toe-headed toddler boy push open my door, look up, and exclaim, "Baby!" pointing gleefully at Ella.

We were awake to start the day with two children.

The hubs helped but quickly had to get ready for work, both of us knowing but not saying that I'd be alone with two under age 2 till midnight, when he'd return from his shift on the boat.

And, so, I spooned up some oatmeal for K while nursing Ella, still in my pajamas.

Both babies were surprisingly happy, considering how little sleep we'd all gotten.

I, meanwhile, felt like I'd been run over by a truck.

But I was distracted from the pain by K chasing Marvin the Dog while Ella giggled endlessly at it.

Then, knowing I had no choice because I'd already committed to hosting a play-date/crafting afternoon at my house that day, I loaded both kids up into my car and headed out for the art-supplies store.

It was slow-going leaving the house. It was slow-going getting them both out of the car, too. And it was even slower-going pushing both of them in the cart through the crowded craft-store aisles.

Ella, who likes to bounce in the cart's front seat covered in her cart-cover (How did she get so big that she can actually sit in the cart?), was blowing spit bubbles while K, who was in the bigger, back portion of the cart, kept chewing on the packaging of the supplies I'd throw back there, as the poor boy must have been teething.

And I can't even tell you the looks I got as older woman saw me and clearly thought "Oh, you poor thing, with two little ones like that."

It could have been a harrowing experience.

Except it wasn't.

Because, as loaded them back into the car and drove away, Ella fell asleep, and K looked over and whispered adorably, "Baby! Hush!"

You could have melted my heart right then and there.

Later that afternoon, my friend came back for her toddler. She'd dilated to 5 centimeters and then stopped contracting. She wasn't yet in active labor, so the midwives sent her home, still pregnant, still like me - a mother to only one.

And, as I watched her walk away, I felt it. Something I didn't think I'd feel. Something I'd actually worried I'd never experience.

Jealousy.

Not green-eyed or evil.

But simple envy that soon, very soon, she was going to have two babies to love and not one.

Despite all the work and the hassle and the chaos that it is to have two whole little beings in your complete care 24-7, it's also kind of awesome, too.

I actually, honestly, liked it.

I liked laughing at the toddler with the baby on my hip. And reading to K while Ella sat in my lap. And watching Ella watch K watch Ella as we all sat around on a blanket with some toys.

Granted, there were moments where it came quite the brouhaha - both babes literally blew out their respective cloth diapers within seconds of each other, and at one point, poop was on me, them, and several changing table covers - but it was still actually something I enjoyed.

It felt, well, right.

And, honestly, I didn't expect that. Not in the least.

I love kids. I love K. I watch him all the time.

But after having my own child, I had - have? - real fears over having Baby No. 2.

Will I love them like I love Ella? Will Ella resent sharing my love? Will I get along with one better than the other? Will Ella feel replaced? Will I start to resent them both when I have even less "me" time? Will I ever be able to do anything with two under my roof? Will my house ever be clean again?

Can I parent more than one child?

It's silly, but when I actually think about having another baby, I feel the urge to turn to Ella and apologize. To say, "I promise. You'll be happy about this when you're older."

To try and explain my choices to a 6 month old.

The thought of being away from her while I'm in labor; the thought of her sharing my lap, my love, my bed, my snuggles, my everything? Well, it makes me cry.

And, yes, I know love is infinite. And I know siblings are some of the best gifts we can give our kids. After all, I adore my brothers.

But the love I have for my daughter is unlike any other love I've ever experienced.

And it's so new and special that the thought of that lessening or changing scares me.

But last week, that changed. Last week, for the first time, I realized I could do it.

I realized I could love doing it.

I realized that I wasn't meant just to have one baby. I realized that my heart and mind had the ability to care for more than Ella.

I realized that, at some point, I'd have another one.

***

Now, before you all get any whacky ideas, let me assure you: I don't think it's a good idea to have another one right now.

Ella is still a baby and is still exclusively breast-fed and pretty much attached at my hip. She's not ready to share that, yet.

So, unless we get really lucky, I'm likely not going to be announcing Baby No. 2 any time soon.

But, while life would be easier if Ella was potty-trained and sleeping in a toddler bed before she finds out about a new baby brother or sister, I'm not guaranteeing that will happen, either.

All this to say that Baby No. 2 is still only a theoretical concept, at this very moment.

Right now, my whole point is this: Last week, I renewed my capacity to love. I started to get just the tiniest bit excited about bringing our next child into this world.

I finally started to believe in another one.

***

This week, I'm writing a brief series on motherhood. A lot of these posts have been weighing on me lately, and I figure now's the time get them out there. So stay tuned this week for more on mommies. (And suggestions/questions are, of course, welcome.)

Happy Wednesday, everyone!

Am I The Only One...

...Who doesn't cook dinner when my husband's not home to eat it?

...Who decided showering with my baby is easier than giving her a bath and then bathing myself later?

...Who lights candles and wax warmers when I'm home all alone?

....Who cries every time I see a baby being born on television, the Internet, or in person?

...Who has about 18 craft projects I've started and never finished?

...Who insists on buying a real Christmas tree even if I'm not going to actually be home on Christmas?

...Who enjoys being outside when it's cold?

...Who misses her baby while she naps and therefore checks on her 18 times an hour?

...Who doesn't understand why people don't like coconut?

...Who watched the season finale of Sister Wives and loved it (and who wouldn't mind having a sister wife myself if it didn't involve the obvious sharing of my husband)?

...Who feels like I blinked and my newborn became an almost 6 month old?

...Whose only regret about winter is that the fruit selection is downright paltry at the market?

...Who hates that her husband doesn't work normal hours but doesn't mind a night or two to herself (but only a night or two!)?

...Who feels the need to buy a new sweatshirt even though I own about 42 of them already?

...Who wants to send out an impossible amount of Christmas cards?

...Who is so sick of Thanksgiving leftovers that I'm considering throwing out the last vestiges of sweet-potato casserole and corn pudding?

...Who feels like punching everyone who expresses shock that my child doesn't sleep through the night yet?

...Who needs to quit blogging and go to bed before I lose anymore precious sleep over all of the above?

***

Happy Thursday, everyone!