Second Time Around

Where to begin? There are so many things this time that mirrored my last pregnancy/motherhood journey. I had the same excellent prenatal care. I had the same midwife and assistant help bring my son into the world in my same cozy home. Once again I had a giant belly, a giant boy, and a long labor. During labor I had my blessingway candle lit reminding me that I was not alone, like last time. I had my dogs remaining vigilant and serene as I became my most primal self and the wall between our worlds thinned for the second time during those transitional hours. And while so so much was the same, things were very different in the most essential ways.

My last labor and postpartum experience was a dark and difficult time for me. There was a lot of guilt and sorrow I had to work through. It was so difficult that I was not sure whether I ever wanted to be in that place again. Half of me was sincere when I said I was done having babies. I certainly wasn't ready to start over when we found out we were pregnant again. That was more of a shock than a surprise. I mean it took us more than a year of intentional trying to conceive, so how could we possibly be pregnant on accident with how little we actually had sexy time?!?! But here we were, unprepared and pregnant. 

This time around I was not nearly as attentive to the nugget in my womb. I chased my toddler around the house, juggled working full time and parenting my little tornado, was just beginning to be able to carve space out for myself to tend to my soul and spirit, and with only 24 hours in a day I just couldn't be as on top of things with this pregnancy as I was with my first. Things slipped through the cracks. I forgot to take supplements, I stopped tracking how much protein I was eating, I didn't have time to listen for that special song that would be ours: baby's and mine. The guilt I felt during postpartum with my first, I felt during the actual pregnancy with the second. I had to remind myself to actually tell the baby and, if I'm honest, myself that I did love the baby and that his life was cherished and desired, even if unplanned.

What taking a nap in the first trimester looks like with a toddler in the home

Everyone's promise to me was that this baby would be easier. Maybe it was said just to set my heart at ease and to quiet my fear, something I never really tried to hide. But whether on not that was the case, one thing was true- I was not the same person as last time. My tribe of friends and mamas reminded me of this. For as much as I suffered through my first experience, I was also changed by those experiences, refined by the fire of hard truths and inescapable realities: living with a baby is hard, and some babies are really really hard (read: my son). And so with much more healthy and realistic expectations I braced myself for the hell that I anticipated would come, all the while hoping the promises made to me would become my truth. 

I'm happy to say that, for the most part, those promises have come true. I was told that my labor would be shorter, especially after giving birth to such a large baby last time, that my body would be well prepared to push anything out quicker than last time. Well that was not the case. This second labor was in fact 7 hours longer, totaling 28 hours. Ugh! But somehow, it was easier. More on that in another post. But aside from that missed promise, my postpartum experience has indeed been easier. This baby has been easier. He's still a sparkler- apparently, the Divine must want me to prepare for some kind of weight lifting competition in the future since I keep getting practice with giant babies that MUST be carried/held at all times. But he is closer to what a typical newborn experience is. It is hard, being yelled at/cried at, getting little sleep, losing freedoms as you become chained to a tiny person thanks to your leaking boobs, but all this is still so much easier than last time. It really truly is, and I actually am happy, and so head-over-heels in love with this little man. Now, I get it, now I understand what all the fuss is about, why women ache to have a baby, the smell, the cuddles, the staring and staring at a cherub-like face- moonstruck...I get it. 

My sweet little cherub, he makes me so happy

This experience has redeemed those terrible days of my last experience. For all the ways that the two stories mirror each other, they are different in the most important ways. Where there was darkness, now there is light. Isn't that how love works?

Thank you little Bear for choosing me to be your mama, and for letting me love and care for you. This is my favorite job EVER! You are the Best. Surprise. Ever.

XOXO

Giggles, and Going Back to Work

Since I had been TTC for a while before we met R, I was able to save enough money to take 5 months off from work. I'm SOOOOO glad that I did. I needed that time to bond with R. As I have mentioned before, the first three months were spent just trying to survive my postpartum depression and the colic. And then somewhere in between the second and third months giggles happened. Giggles that I caused! My son was starting to bond with me and I with him. The 4th and 5th months were spent strengthening that bond, which I desperately needed because I wondered daily if I had what it took to make a decent mother. My biggest fear was that I did not, and my lack of bond/connection played into that fear. But giggles happened, and smiles at me, and belly laughs, and naps in my arms, and reaching for me. Sitting up, touching grass for the first time, and tasting and making faces at food. It was in these mundane daily acts that I started to feel connected to my son.

It was also at this time that I had to go back to work. Ah the irony...when all I wanted to do was get away I had to stay at home with the baby, and just when I was starting to feel like my place, purpose and joy were wrapped up in being with my little chunky monkey that is the exact time I had to go back to work. That last week at home was tough. I cried at everything. I hated that I was going to miss all those firsts and all the cuddles and giggles but I knew this was part of the deal.

When I found out that it wasn't going to be easy for me to get pregnant I felt an urgency to start trying. The original plan was to wait until my husband could financially support us himself. But with the uncertainty of when or how long it would take for us to get pregnant, we took the leap. I know it hurt my husband to see me moping around the house as my return to work date neared. I know he wished he could give me my heart's desire, but he also reminded me that this was the risk we took when we started trying ahead of schedule.

I had to remind myself that as I was TTC I had asked for god's timing in it all and that I would learn to surrender my sense of control in exchange for trust that god would provide (a baby, or if no baby then the healing and courage to embrace my new life path) and in the right time. And here I was with the prayed-for-baby, questioning god's timing. How could I leave him?

An army of working moms reached out to me, sympathy in their eyes, offering me their strength and courage. My mother was one of them. She was sad, and, I imagine, relived those painful days when she had to leave me and my brother as I cried to her. She affirmed my grief, and conceded that it is hard, but it would get easier, and it would be okay.

My greatest comfort was that R would be staying with his papa. J adjusted his schedule so that he could watch R the majority of the time I was away. But there was still guilt and fear. Now a year has gone by and the fear (of R not wanting/knowing me) has all but disappeared. The guilt, however, that lingers and somedays it wells up and lands heavy on me, and all I can do is stand in it and wait for it to settle back down. Days like when my husband confessed that he saw our son take his very first steps but he didn't tell me right away because he wasn't sure how I would take it. Days like when the sitter is leaving and my son cries and reaches for her. Days like when my son figures out how to say, "Xbox" and I wasn't there to marvel at his genius. I know more days like those lie ahead. I also know that I am working, not because I don't love my son, but because I do! I love him so so so much! And this is the sacrifice I have to make for our family, for him.

Going back to work definitely has its challenges, but THANK GOD for giggles and cuddles and special times like these!

Colic

So colic is one of those words that most people aren't really sure of the exact definition. In fact, even in the medical field there is a lack of consistency in defining colic. It is one of those words that becomes the catch all to describe a baby crying because of a belly ache. And so it is pretty common for people to tell you that their baby had colic.

The first few times people shared this with me, I was eager to commiserate with them over the horror that is colic, only what they described was worlds apart from what I was experiencing. Then one day at church a sweet mama saw my face and heard me mention colic, she approached me with genuine concern and gently tried to encourage me that this would pass and she knew what I was going through because her first born was the exact same way. It was the sympathy in her eyes, and heart break in her tone that convinced me that she truly understood what I was living.

Colic, as our pediatrician explained, is when there are spasms in the digestive system (intestines, or stomach) as the baby continues to develop this important system. These spasms are not always painful to all babies, but for some they are very painful. We were the lucky winners of that crap shoot. Now that my boy is past that painful phase and I can feel what gas bubbles moving through intestines feels like, I am more convinced that our pediatrician's definition is spot on, because gas bubbles feel different than what I would feel in my baby boy's tummy. It felt like a spasm. Like a cramp was spasming in his belly. Poor baby :( He was suffering, and, by proxy, so were we.

The colic lasted for about 13 weeks, and coincided with my postpartum depression. I think the lack of sleep was a huge factor in my depression. For thirteen weeks my son cried and screamed in pain. He slept very little and when he did it was only with pressure and heat on his stomach. So we ended up holding him in the "magic hold" (look it up if you ever find yourself with a restless, fussy baby, it was a life saver for us), or we wore him. I had intended to wear him, but with the colic there was no other option if I wanted to get anything else done. He HATED the car seat (and still isn't really a fan) so driving around was not an option, he hated being on his back so the swing or bouncer didn't help much during that time. He basically lived in my carrier on my or my husband's chest, like a baby kangaroo. (BTW I would highly recommend the Becco Gemini carrier for folks who want to wear newborn babies!)

R slowly outgrew the colic. A woman commented to me once that she believed that babies aren't done developing when they come out of the womb and the she considered the first six months to be a continuation of the enormous changes that occurred in utero. That perspective really helped me during this time. I can't exactly explain why, but it did. My baby who was in pain, and who was making me miserable, was himself miserable and scared by all the changes and sensations he was feeling, and he was helpless to stop it, and all he wanted was to be held chest to chest with his momma or papa. At times I was so tired and irritated I resented being wanted so extremely, but then I reminded myself of his developing pains and I wore him because that was the only thing to give him comfort.

So, we had the colic. It suuuuuucked!!! I had not prepared for that. I did not handle it well. My husband was the champ, the hero, the rock. And those were the first 3 months. Every week of those months I wondered how long I would be in that hell. Those were dark times for me, remember? No one could ever give me a definitive answer. A few moms had some wise words: things never really get easier, they just get different. I liked that. It has that hopeful, slogan feel doesn't it? And I am sure it is true for most moms. But my husband and I were just talking about this the other day, and so far every phase past the colic has definitely been easier. Teething, easier. Night terrors, easier. Night nursing (which he still does at 13 months), easier. Growth spurts, easier. Pre-milestone-grumpiness, easier. ALL easier. Not easy, but easier. So far anyway.

Let's just get this over with

My last post ended on a bit of a somber note. Before I explain, let me first make it clear that I LOVE LOVE LOVE my son so so so much. Parenthood may not be for everyone, and I respect and applaud those who have recognized that it might not be for them and have decided not to pursue it. This gig isn't for the faint of heart. I am daily in awe that I was allowed to journey this road and with such a precious companion. I am so grateful to be a mother (my heart breaks for those who seek this and are denied it), and humbled that I have been entrusted such a priceless gem. I love him more than I expected, more than I knew I could love at all.

Now with that said, I am ashamed to admit that I had a hard time feeling this way when I first met Little. I held him, fed him, and cared for him as any responsible parent would, but I didn't feel love. In fact I felt regret. I often joked about this with others, but it was, unfortunately, all very true. I hate myself for having had those feelings. I don't know if I can ever forgive myself. I had honestly wished I had never gotten pregnant and given birth. Before me was a stranger that screamed at me all day long (the colic drama to come later), ripped up my nipples, refused to be put down causing incredible pain in my arm and back muscles (did I mention he was nearly 10 lbs???), refused all the comforts offered him (swaddles, pacifier, crib, car rides, etc.), and basically was just "take take take" with not a smidge of "give," not even a smile or an hour of silence so weak mom could rest.

Most of that is pretty normal for parents of newborns, but I had the added insult of postpartum depression. My hormones were so out of balance. That coupled with the lack of sleep and I was basically a zombie. I felt empty inside, hopeless. I wanted to run away. Leave the baby and my husband behind. They seemed content with each other after all, they would be fine. But I was drowning. I couldn't breathe and I just wanted out. I knew then that these were horrible feelings to be having so now I had guilt to add to my depression.

My mom also had struggled with postpartum depression, so she could tell immediately that I had it. She stayed with us for that tiresome, first week and witnessed my emotional madness as I would swing from anger and rage over the silliest things to fits of tears as I gazed at my screaming son. When she left we all cried. She told my husband to keep an eye on me, and tried to encourage him, because now he had the burden of taking care of our colic-y babe and me. In this story my husband is the hero. He is my hero. He is my son's hero. He is the this small family's hero. His perseverance and enormous heart rescued me, and sheltered my son. I praise god greatly for putting him on earth so he could fulfill this crucial role.

So many people surrounded me during this dark time, friends, family, strangers, childhood friends. They may never know how deep and profound their time affected me. The simplest phone call, or visit did wonders to lift my spirit, to remind me that I was still me. I put all my energy in making my outward appearance look as strong as possible. I was ashamed of my own thoughts and I did not want others to witness them. But I was not well, even if I looked it, and your time had a powerful impact, even if you thought it was not necessary, to me it was.

After about 13 weeks, I finally started to feel like myself again. Well not exactly. Nothing has ever been exactly the same, and it could never be, because now I am a mother, forged in the fire of trial and despair, but I came through, I survived, and I bear the the scars of that darkness both physically and emotionally.

I have this picture as my background on my phone. It isn't the cutest picture of my son. And it certainly isn't the most recent. But it is from that dark time. He was only a couple of days old. I look at it and speak to that tiny baby. I tell him how sorry I am for those first 13 weeks. I look at it and hope that my darkness did not leave scars on his spirit. I look at it and tell that baby "I love you" because I wasn't able to when he was actually  that small. I don't know how long I will keep this picture up, reminding me of that time and my terrible weakness. But for now I keep it there. I am not ready to forgive myself yet, but I am getting there.

I Hate Finishing Books

Confession, I have purposely not finished reading a book series that I love because I hate it when books end. I have all the books in the series, and my husband has read them all and said that it was a good end to the series. But the fact that it is the end is enough to keep me from reading it... for 3 years!

I do this with allot of things. Like TV shows. I will watch nearly an entire TV series and when I get near the end will suddenly feel compelled to find some other show to watch. It will literally take me months and months to finish watching the last 3 episodes of a series. I just hate endings. I get so sad. Like I am saying goodbye to a dear friendship that I don't want to end. And while I know that all things on this earth have an end, I like to live in willful ignorance and ignore that fundamental detail.

Here I am at the end of this pregnancy, and I am sad. Isn't it funny? Most women are eager for their little one to come out, to be born, to give their bodies relief and to finally meet the beautiful baby. Don't get me wrong. I really do want to meet my precious Little, but I have enjoyed this pregnancy.

A friend recently asked me how this pregnancy has been treating me? Have I liked being pregnant? No one had ever asked me that in the 36 weeks I was pregnant. I needed a moment to reflect on this. I think I came up with a simple short answer for her, but later that I night I really thought about that question. And my answer is that I have LOVED being pregnant. My body has changed in so many ways, and it has had its challenges, but for the most part this has been a beautiful experience! I know that I am lucky, that things could have been much worse. That I was graciously spared the dreaded morning sickness. But I was spared of it and of so many other challenges. I am so blessed to have had such a wonderful time. I love feeling the little one inside me move, and how the movements have changed as the space inside has changed. I love having a beautiful big belly. I love how people are compelled to reach out and touch it. And I love how I make people laugh with my disproportionate belly size.

Today is my birthday, it is the last one that I will ever have where I can be selfish and make it all about me. It is, in a sense, an end, which makes me sad. Also, this week I am considered to be full-term. Another end. Another pang of sadness. I want to meet my baby, but I don't want this beautiful experience to end. If I am blessed to have another child, I know that I can look forward to this experience again, but it will be different. My husband and I were talking about this. This is the first time for us. It is full of first time surprises and joys. Next time there will be joy, certainly, but it will not be like the first time. It will be different.

So here I am, at the end of several things, trying to relish and savor the last of them, especially since in this situation I cannot simply ignore the event and spread it out over several months. The end is coming, no avoiding it, and with it a new beginning full of new joys I am sure. But an ending is still and ending, and my sentimental self is sad to loose such sweet a friend.