Bittersweet end to nursing

My goal was to nurse through the summer and perhaps wrap up around Labor Day. My supply was certainly dwindling but I intended to carry on with bedtime nursing until Maya was 16 or 17 months old. We made it until almost 14 months.

We are slammed with weddings and their respective showers/bachelorette activities this summer. This has meant many weekends away and disrupted schedules. A couple weeks ago we were in Annapolis for a wedding and air travel and late dinners made for late bedtimes. Two nights in a row Maya fell asleep with hardly any attempt on her part to nurse. Just too too tired. She had consumed a bottle of warm whole milk in the car rides on the way back to the hotel, and even sweet milk from mama was not going to entice her to stay up an extra minute.

I admit that I never felt this magical bond with my daughter through nursing. And those first weeks were nearly unbearable — Maya’s nickname was baracuda for the first few months of her life.

But now to be on the other side of having nursed a child is yet another adjustment. I have to realize I did a good job. My milk ran its course. I nourished my baby the best way that I believed I could.

For so long I was envious of my spouse for being able to have a night or two away from parenting. Now that I don’t have the responsibility of nursing, I *could* conceivably get away. I can also do things like eat raw cookie dough and….DRINK CAFFEINATED COFFEE. It has been a nice reunion with the caffeinated bean, I must say.

The end of nursing means accepting that my baby really isn’t a baby anymore. She is a growing toddler. After 39 weeks of pregnancy and nearly 14 months — about two years total — my body is 100% mine again.

But my heart feels like it is toddling around outside of it.

Baby got a fat lip

We left the one-year doc appointment with a handout on childhood development and expectations that reads, “Baby has or will begin walking. Baby will fall down often.”

Maya is on the go. She loves the freedom that walking provides. Even now she will often try to wriggle free from me while I carry her through a store or to her room because she would prefer to be on her own two feet.

She falls down every day. We say, “That’s ok. That’s what a bum is for.” We hover between letting her explore (within constant eyesight) and walking along with her when it seems like she could trip and bump her head on something.

Well, we reached another baby milestone yesterday: the first bloody injury. Maya got a fat lip. She looks like a puckering fish.

She was plodding along behind Nana’s couch, couldn’t get a grip on the flat vertical surface, and took a spill face-first on the hardwood floor. She started crying harder than usual and I picked her up to console her, thinking she really bumped her nose and it surprised her.

A minute later, I see blood. Trickling out with the tears and drool. It’s different than when you watch your child’s blood drawn at the doctor’s office or her finger pricked for an iron test. Those are controlled settings. For preventative health reasons.

Despite having witnessed such injury countless times with younger siblings, I did panic a little. I yelpled to Jason to put a few ice cubes in a wash cloth. I didn’t think about how he probably hadn’t done that a million times growing up and was somewhat impatient as I watched Maya cry through a bloody mouth. Until I could see that she didn’t bust an emerging tooth and realize this wasn’t going to turn into an emergency room visit on Father’s Day did I chill.

Uncle Ace told her she was just like a hockey player, ready to get back in a play because she calmed down after a few minutes and was wriggling out of my lap to return to her toddling.

Everything about one’s baby is so perfect. Fingers, toes, eyelashes, skin. Everything on the inside so pure and untainted. I wasn’t prepared to see her healthy, thriving, hard-working blood on the outside of her body.

Maya took the injury in stride. She is so strong. And getting stronger.

Remember who I am

Last night Nana Sue picked me up for a date. She explained that stay-at-home moms, which is the label I currently possess, never get time off. With everyone cheering for the upcoming three-day holiday weekend, I can understand. There will still be schedules, diapers, meal prep, battles to get dressed, sunblock application wrestling, and unpredictable sleep and non-sleep for me. So when Nana Sue offered to treat me to a leisurely meal, how could I say no? She emphasized how we’d go somewhere quiet, where we could be waited on, and just linger.

Like countless other moms, I don’t give myself breaks or time for myself. It’s so hard to justify putting one’s feet up when there’s laundry to keep up with, an explosion of crayons in the living room, a dinner to figure out, a prescription to pick up, a cat bringing chipmunks into the house…

So I was “forced” to go out on a dinner date. Nana Sue plotted it, invited me, picked me up, and treated me to scrumptious Indian. And it got me thinking that moms do need to be “forced” to get out and do something fun for an hour or two. Casual plans won’t work. Inevitably they are thwarted by something else.

Even though I thought I’d have collected myself a bit more by Maya’s first birthday, I’m definitely still more lost than I’ve ever been. Maybe I can better guess when she’ll nap or what snack will make her super happy, but I seem to have forgotten who I am. It’s hard to articulate. I don’t know what I like or what I’m good at or what I should do as a next step in my career or when I should even take that step. If other moms have encountered this, I’d love to hear how long it lasted and how you figured out who you were again or who this new you is. It’s sure taking me a loooong time. I’m remaining open. But besides being forced to have fun, I think I need help remembering who I am.

365.5 days in sweatpants

My Maya Papaya turned ONE yesterday. We celebrated with loved ones over the weekend. Maya’s apple cheeks were kissed countless times. She ate a slice of banana lush cake after a rock star nap.

To say the milestone was cause for reflection would be an understatement. Sometimes I really wonder whether she or I have learned more this past year. But then I realize that she has gone from being an immobile, exclusively nursed eight-pound infant to a twenty-something pound one-year old who understands so much language, eats everything, laughs, loves books, plays with toys, and even takes a few independent steps here and there!

I have learned that I have little control over most things. I have learned that even my fiercest ethics can be challenged and take a time out. I have learned that I do, in fact, have hormonal episodes (after years of claiming otherwise).

I have also learned that I have great endurance. My patience with Maya is probably a billion times greater than my patience with myself. I have learned to push through the most physically and mentally demanding days.

For weeks and months I looked forward to this one-year mark, believing I would have collected myself a bit by now. Adapted to motherhood, if you will — able to find time each day to care for my daughter, stimulate and encourage her, as well as exercise, take care of the pets, cook awesome meals, and work on career aspirations. I don’t know if I’ve accomplished all those things even one day in the past 365. I’ve certainly tried, though.

My uniform for the past year has been sweatpants. I take a shower before bed to wash off the day, and when Maya peeps in the morning I put on my sweatpants and go go go. I gave myself permission to run errands, meet friends, and grab a bite while wearing blue, grey, brown cozy, baggy sweatpants.

Today I changed before running errands with Maya. She’s a toddler now. And I want to try to be a little more hip for her. Ok, and for me.

An unswimmingly long day

The day began behind in sleep. Well, don’t most days, you ask? Well, yes, probably. But the little one tossed a bit and needed some re-corking with the nuk. The cat scratched at the window to come back inside at 2am. Couldn’t fall asleep so drank some water and read “The Joy Luck Club” until almost 4am. Unfortunately read the chapter on when the four-year old brother drowns, and continued to freak out about how we would teach Maya water safety and always be on high alert when near the element.

On our early morning dog walk, a bird pooped on our jogger and the hood of Maya’s coat. Is getting pooped on by a bird lucky? For real, I heard that somewhere?

During morning “nap” I ate some peanut butter toast and tried to job hunt and house hunt. But much fussing thwarted snoozing and we were up and at it again before long. Making our loops through each room, seeing how many crayons Maya could hold at once, fixing high-fiber snacks for my little infrequent pooper.

Our mid-day outing was a trip to Walgreen’s. Super fun! All we had to do was pick up a prescription, but we poked around just a bit. I scoped out the hairstyle mags since I’m getting a cut on Friday. What a bust. Maya threw the mags on the floor. She obviously agreed that they were useless. Also searched for Maltsupex for Miss Maya, but to no avail. Bust again.

I envisioned the much desired workout I would have during afternoon nap. How my body just wants to bolt. Escape from being a hunchback each day, bending over a very short toddler. How a little toning might bring me some needed confidence. Anyway, nap is a bust. Three cheers for a poop! But she strains so much that she can’t fall back to sleep. Even snuggling and rocking her.

Jason found a tick on himself in his truck. Now he’s in a panic about ticks being in our home. Dinner is rushed. We’ve got to make it to swim lessons by 6:30. I’m a little worried that Maya will be fried and not enjoy her second lesson. The first one was super fun and she “chatted” the whole time. Perhaps, despite missing naps, she would be soothed by the water and enjoy the change of scene. Ha! Silly Mom. MELT DOWN. Maya, usually smiley and curious, turned into a ball of tears and snot. She hardly got in the water. We left before the lesson ended.

During Maya’s bath Jason urges, “check between her toes for ticks.” I feel itchy.

Bambi peed on her leash when we got out of the car. I had to change the litter, but we were out of litter. Damn this long day! So I had to jet to the store.

Now it’s close to 10pm. I’m showered. I’ve vented on the day. Let’s reflect on something good.

Jason got me/us a new camera! So I will once again be able to document this adventure in raising a child. I didn’t take any pics of her strained, tired, snotty face today. But I am excited to capture next week’s swim lesson. My Maya in her polka dot swimsuit, talking up a storm as she splashes in the pool with Dad.

Better left unsaid

There are two things that my non-mom friends have said to me lately that I think should be outlawed immediately.

“I slept in” is one of them. My friend Karyn likes to tell me this on occasion and it makes me bananas. It’s even worse when she yawns and adds details, like “I slept in until 9:30.” Great. I’m sure you were tired and all, but you are not allowed to say such things to the mom of a wee kid. Don’t even get me started. We’ve nursed, ate cereal, walked the dog, played with blocks, emptied the dishwasher, read books, and folded diapers before the clock strikes 9:30.

Earlier this week my friend Rachel told me she’s been “ordered to rest for a whole week.” Doctors orders. (She has a virus.) Truthfully, this friend needs to recuperate as she tends to get struck by colds and viruses regularly. However, she added, “it’s boring.” I probably should have bit my tongue, but I replied, “You’ll want this week back when you have a newborn.” Seriously. A WEEK of REST! That’s like winning the lottery or eating your weight in chocolate without repercussion or living a life with thick, luxurious locks.

I’m going to remind both of them of these comments if/when they procreate.

Momifesto

I’m a full-time mom whose part-time job was eliminated earlier this month. I go back and forth thinking I have so much time to figure out what to do with my life and so little time. My patient and impatient selves are feuding.

If possible, I’d like to find a part-time job so that I’m still very available to my young daughter. I am fortunate to have a spouse who is employed full-time.

Do I continue on the track I’ve invested in so far or shift gears and try something new? Something new smells good and gets me excited … but I don’t know what it is! And is it silly to have invested all that time and energy into an M.A. to abandon it?

The first year of momhood has shaken me up, turned me around, challenged me unrelentlessly. Any confidence or direction I had prior to birthing a human seems to have forsaken me.

I try to imagine the woman I’d like to be in five years, and maybe I can take baby steps to become her. Along the way I ask myself what my daughter is learning from this. Granted, she is only eleven-months old as I type. But soon enough her eyes and ears will soak up my words — confident and stuttering, ambitions — realized or lost, emotions — honest or guarded.

Will she witness a woman who detours a career each time there is a hurdle? Or will she see a woman who takes risks and finds success?

It’s hard to distinguish between who I want to be and who I want to be for my daughter.

Yoga Beer Casserole

I have somewhat of a mild obsession with these three things these days.

Yoga: After a day of hunching over my daughter as she “walks” around while gripping my fingers, hauling groceries, changing a litter box, scooping dog poop, and countless other contortions, yoga stretches me back into my 5 foot (almost) 7 inch self. Wringing out the waist, cracking my back, supplying oxygen to cells that have gone without for ages…that yoga is good to me. Plus, I like the theory that these balancing acts will somehow bring my pre-pregnancy waist back to me. That’s TBD, of course.

Beer: Also good to me. I could probably enjoy one each night after putting the wee one to bed. Sometimes the suds just hit the spot. However, I cannot indulge every night, as imbibing directly reverses any yoga efforts to regain a pre-pregnancy bod.

Casserole: Before motherhood, I remember having a conversation with another non-Mom about casseroles and we joked that no one makes those odd-gooey-things anymore. But I’ve been whipping casseroles up with a vengence every week! It’s so easy to toss noodles, veggies, cheeses, eggs, breadcrumbs, etc. into a pan and bake it. I’ve been prepping the mean dish while Maya naps in the afternoon. Then, when grub time inches closer, I pop it in the oven. One-dish meals make this mom super duper happy. Today I purchased the ingredients for a pizza casserole. That’s right.

Baby makes for a segregated holiday?

We drove to the other side of the state to gather with some family at the JB’s for a good meal and an egg hunt. The JB’s home is always warm, friendly, and fun. Good conversation. Excellent eats.

I was feeling over-the-edge-mom-tired. But still excited to see everyone. Maya was ready to explore the surroundings. The meal was tasty. As is typical, I missed much of the conversation. In between mincing food for Maya, I tried fueling myself. I eat rapidly as a Mom — knowing that my daughter will soon call it quits and we’ll clean up and go mobile again.

The rest of the family gathering was oddly segregated. I didn’t expect it. While I “walked” around with Maya — she grips my fingers and does loops in and out of rooms, up and down hallways — the women congregated in the living room and the men wandered over to the TV. Maybe my bias is obvious when I say they tuned in to an insignificant golf event. (I know it was unimportant because I asked.)

The truth is I needed some good girl talk. But maybe I got two minutes while Maya napped. I wondered whether bringing a baby into a family gathering splits the sexes? Do the men presume we ladies will talk about child rearing details? Do the women push the men and their beers into the other room? Maybe the holiday would have split the group regardless? But I’ve never noticed this before at the JB’s.

Maybe I’ll catch up on some zzz’s and forget about it.

The challenge: taking care of yourself

It’s always been easier for me to nurture others than to nurture myself. Maybe it’s because I’m the oldest of six kids and have always had mother duck responsibilities. It’s as if it has been easier to care for my sister’s anxieties or my friend’s broken heart than to stare my own self down.

Inevitably I end up in these places where I feel like I could really use some care and comfort, but I can’t ask for it. No way! Where’s the karma? Why isn’t it coming back to me?

I wonder if my daughter will feel these bouts of loneliness and ache for some unconditional love. I have to teach her to be gentle to herself. To nurture herself. Because, in the end, all you have is yourself. This is all part of my primary goal of raising a daughter with great self esteem!

And I realize that I have to put myself to task. These lessons won’t be taught if my actions indicate that I’m not digging myself all that much. This has to be one of the biggest puzzles of parenthood: how to do as you say. How to be a healthy role model 110 percent of the time. Being a healthy role model, of course, means expressing all emotions, including sadness and fear and worry and anger, but also facing all of these feelings with honesty and courage.

Can I tell my daughter to take time to rest if I never do? Or can I tell her to treat herself to a new outfit if I refuse to spend money on myself?

Being good to my Maya means being good to my mama self, too.