Second kid syndrome

Attention fellow neurotic control freaks, I have a bit of good news. If you regularly speculate on how your own neuroses are going to negatively impact your firstborn, I'm here to let you know that any damage done will be balanced out, karmically, by your second kid. Basically, all the fears and anxiety you had with your first kid will be but a mere fraction with your second...or at least halved.

I'm not sure if it's because my second kid is a girl or it's just her personality, but she is brimming with moxie. This chick watches her brother like a hawk and then attempts to do every single thing he can do. She sees him drawing with markers and pens, and she has to do it. She sees him riding a tricycle, and she has to ride it. She watches him climb on stools, chairs and couches, and obviously she has to do the same. One time, she went into the playroom and proceeded to get really quiet. After a few minutes, my husband wandered in to check on the kids, and there she sat on top of my son's paw patrol table, having climbed up onto the chair next to it and then onto the table. Just sitting there on top of the table, triumphant in her achievement. This gal is 16 months, going on 6 years. And you know what? I don't worry half as much about her as I did with my first. It's amazing, really, because I am a grade A control freak. This girl has taken my control and thrown it out the window, and I'm probably a less frazzled person overall (marginally so).

Because she's my second, I don't worry as much about small things. Hell, even large things don't give me the level of anxiety and stress I felt with my first kid. However, I am currently feeling particularly anxious about her going to daycare; stressed with a pit in my stomach as her first day approaches pretty much sums it up. I mean, I was a wreck when my firstborn started daycare, but I am downright beside myself over her going. I'm not sure exactly why; maybe it's because she's about 6-7 months older than the first one when he started, or maybe it's because she's knee-deep in a phase where she only wants to be with me and clings to me like a leech. Perhaps it's because her stranger-danger sense is super turned on right now; she pretty much runs away from anyone she's not super familiar with, including family members she sees on the regular. Now, eventually after a little while, she will warm up and adjust and stop freaking out, but it takes a minute for her to come around. The thought of her being dropped off at a brand new place she's never been to before full of strange people she's never met feels downright cruel to me. 

Everyone around me is assuring me that she needs daycare and she will be fine. There will be an adjustment period but eventually she will acclimate. I know all this and realize that she will be safe and cared for. But I feel the way I feel about it and I would just appreciate some validation, rather than a dismissive placation. The only other person who seems to share in my dread is my mom, and that's because she doesn't believe in daycare. She thinks it's too much for a little one to handle, that it's too long of a day for a small child. (i.e. we never went to daycare when we were young, we were looked after by my grandma) Whatever, I'll take it. My misery needs the company.

UPDATE:

My daughter's first day of daycare has come and gone, and man, was it a tough day. I cried tears of worry and sadness in the morning, and then I cried tears of relief in the afternoon after the daycare sent pics of her activities at school. She didn't eat or drink anything that first day, but my MIL picked her up right after her nap and she got to spend the rest of the afternoon in a familiar place. Overall, she did just as expected for her first day, and I was so relieved to get through the day. Her second day: even better than the first. Fewer tears from her (and me) and I got a couple of videos sent to me of her teacher trying to get her to practice jumping. It was adorable and she seemed to be genuinely enjoying her time there. My heart was so happy today. 

The weight of the world

 In thinking about all the stages of motherhood, I realized that weight is a pervasive theme.

There's the weight of the pressure a woman feels to conceive. If and when a woman decides to try for kids, the efforts to get there can feel like a 50-lb boulder on one's back. There are cycles to track, sticks to pee on, temperatures to chart. When it doesn't happen right away, it can feel hopeless and frustrating. If a pregnancy loss occurs, the sadness is heavy. If, as it was in my case, multiple pregnancy losses occur, the burden of that type of grief is massive to carry. And while others may offer support, a woman carries those losses mostly on her own.

When a woman finally becomes pregnant, there's the physical weight she gains, both her own and that of the life she is growing inside. Some women gain a lot of weight while pregnant, and some gain only a little. Unless you're one of those anomalies that doesn't know she's pregnant, you will have to learn how to adjust to a different weight and size throughout the pregnancy. Clothing sizes change, maybe even your shoe size changes. I didn't gain a ton of weight in my pregnancies; particularly with my second kid, since I stayed pretty active chasing around a toddler during that pregnancy. However, by the end of each pregnancy, I was so big and awkward that it was super uncomfortable to even roll over in bed. You would think a rotund, fully pregnant woman would have no trouble rolling here and there, but it felt like running a fucking marathon just to do this. 

As for the fetus, they come in all shapes and sizes. Some babies are a robust 10lbs when they finally hatch, and some are smaller. Some precious littles are born early and have to finish gaining their weight on the outside. I was pretty lucky, I think, in that my babies were 6 pounders, almost 7, and that was perfect for my 4' 11" frame. My first kid lost a bit of weight after he was born; more so than what is considered standard. I had to supplement his breast feedings with formula bottles so he could pack on the weight he had lost. We had to take him to the doctor quite a few times after he was born to check his weight and ensure he was gaining. And he did, like a champ. My daughter was a great eater from the start and never had any problems with gaining and keeping weight on.

After mom gives birth, there is always the specter of losing the baby weight looming in the background. For many moms, it's not necessarily a high priority, though it's a unique journey for everyone. For me, with my first, losing the weight wasn't difficult because I was breastfeeding, and it seemed to just fall off as my body worked double time to keep alive myself and this baby who had just gotten the boot from my uterus. However, after stopping breastfeeding, my weight seemed to skyrocket. (I mean, it didn't really but I was no longer dropping the baby weight with the ease I was while I was lactating.) I'm also an older mom and had my babies in my late 30s, so obviously my metabolism, though never a champion to begin with, was even slower than if I were ten years younger. After my second kid, I made exercising more of a priority, not only to lose baby weight that was stubbornly sticking around, but because it's tough keeping up with two young kids and even tougher when you're out of shape and your sciatica kicks in. Working out was a welcome escape for me after my second kid. It helps me feel more like my old self, gives me some much needed energy and strength and it is something positive and beneficial that I can do for myself when so much of my day centers around others' needs.

I typically rock (or walk, rather, as she gets older and bigger) my daughter to sleep for her naps and at night. When she's in my arms and her head is perched on my shoulder, I can always tell when she's finally fallen asleep because the weight of her gradually feels heavier in my arms. Not to mention the drool will flow freely at this point, and sometimes her paci will drop out of her mouth. But it's that still, vulnerable weight of my babies in my arms that is one of the most profound feelings I've felt as a mom. There's something about that resting weight that really solidifies my motherly instincts and reminds me without fail that my job on this rock is first and foremost to protect and love these babies of mine, no matter how big and how old they get. If there is a perfect moment in my day with regards to my kids, it's when they fall asleep in my arms or curled up next to me, their weight resting on me with the assurance that they are safe and loved. Every parent should be able to know how this feels, and when I think about all the refugees who are seeking that feeling of safety and assurance for their own children, it breaks my heart and reinforces just how lucky I really am.

As my kids get older, they obviously get heavier, which means transitions related to car seats, toys, etc. They also become more and more cumbersome to tote around. When my daughter decides to throw her weight around in protest to me picking her up in order to stop her from doing something, she damn near catapults herself out of my grip now that she's a 20-pounder. My son, still very much a snuggler, is getting more difficult to carry back to bed, with his longer legs, though he's the skinny Minnie of the two kids. Again, this is one of the instances where the working out piece is a crucial part of my routine. 

As my kids move towards things like full-day school and daycare, the weight of how they will fare sits heavy on my mind. I'm an anxious person. I catastrophize and assume the worst. Perhaps I'm projecting my own past experiences; I was always a shy person who didn't have a ton of confidence or self-assurance. When I think about my kids at school or daycare, deep down I know they're doing just fine, but I worry that they are feeling anxious or insecure being around both adults and kids they don't know. It behooves me to remember at these times that everything is a phase.

Being a parent is a huge responsibility, as well as a huge privilege. It's a lot of heavy lifting, both literally and figuratively...so I better get a workout in tomorrow morning before the kids wake up.

FUCKING COVID

 *heavy sigh*

Welp, our house has been hit by covid, and we are knee-deep in quarantine. It started a couple of weeks ago when my mom tested positive. Since she had just been with my son for a day, we had to all get tested; luckily everyone's test was negative. We stayed away from her for ten days, and when we did finally go see her, we masked up while indoors with her. Then, that weekend, we had my brother and his family over with their daughter to hang out. Three days later, my SIL was sick, and then a day or two after that, my husband took an at-home covid test because he had minor symptoms and tested positive. He immediately masked up and proceeded to isolate in our basement as much as possible, which didn't seem too difficult since his office is in the basement anyway. But he was also eating and sleeping down there in order to avoid getting anyone else sick. I also tested at this time, and I was negative. My MIL also ended up testing positive, which she could very well have gotten it from my daughter, who she babysat the same days that my son was exposed at school.

Unfortunately, whether it was exposure from my husband or my SIL or my kid's school (there was a positive case at my son's preschool and he was considered a close contact), my kids ended up testing positive for covid shortly after my husband did. Luckily, my son has virtually no symptoms other than some congestion/runny nose. My daughter experienced several symptoms--fatigue (she's currently taking 2.5, 3 hour naps), slightly elevated temps (but no fever) for a couple of days, a minor cough, some congestion, and extreme crankiness which has led to extreme clinginess to me. As of today, though, both kids seem to be feeling fine and aren't exhibiting symptoms. Baby girl is still all up in my face, though, and still taking super long naps.

Which is probably why, after testing negative four separate times in a two week period, I finally ended up testing positive. I had symptoms here and there for a week or two, but they were all symptoms that could be attributed to allergies or a cold, and I tested negative every time. But alas, I noticed my taste waning late one night, and the next morning it was completely gone, along with my sense of smell. I figured it was just due to the congestion I was experiencing but thought it best to get tested anyway. Sure enough, I was positive for covid. So now I get my own 10-day quarantine. Woohoo. 

I don't really want to go into all the details; I feel like I've been eating, drinking, breathing and living covid nonstop now for the past two weeks straight with no break and no end in sight. But if there's anything to take away from my experience, it's this:

        -Get vaccinated! Symptoms were relatively minor for most of the adults in this clusterfuck, probably because everyone is vaccinated. No one ended up hospitalized or on a vent, so it would appear the vaccine is doing its job. My MIL did end up checking herself into the ER for several hours due to dehydration and feeling extreme nausea, but she had tests done, symptoms treated and was able to go home.

        -Wear your mask! I wear one all day at work. My son wears one all day at preschool. Is it really that deep to wear a face covering for 30 minutes in the grocery store? No, it is not. Mask up!

        -Consider the health and well-being of others. We're all in this together, for better or worse. 

Stay safe out there! 

Yelling at my kid

 I am sad to report that I have become the mom who yells. Not every time, and not in every situation, but when "nice voices" don't get my kid's attention and he has the gall to say "no" when I calmly ask him to go back to bed because I'm busy watching Bridgerton, folding my laundry and enjoying not having kids all up in my face, yelling is the only thing that gets him to budge. Oh, and taking away his treasured blanket, because basically I'm a monster.

Look, I hate yelling. I hate the way it makes me sound, I hate the way it makes me feel, I hate it when my kid actually gets upset at my yelling (trembling chin, eyes filling up with tears), I hate it when the baby who is sitting nearby starts crying because mom's yelling, even though it's not directed at her. Yelling gets my blood pressure up, it gets my anxiety simmering and it makes me feel like a failure as a mom. But it's so hard to resist the false promise that yelling yields results, primarily because yelling usually yields the results I'm seeking in that moment. I have literally yelled at my 4 year old about how much I hate yelling but how yelling is the only thing that actually gets his attention and gets him to follow the directions he's been given 43 times. 

I constantly read and follow mom accounts on IG that give me guidance on how to deal with toddlers and their tantrums, picky eating, etc. Obviously I've read multiple times that yelling only reinforces to them that out-of-control responses are ok. And it's clear that my son has picked up on this; sometimes he will get upset at the tiniest thing and he will escalate quickly by matter-of-factly yelling in my face about what he will or won't do. And honestly, when that happens, I feel like I'm looking in a mirror. In that moment, I can see the damage my yelling has done, and I hate myself for it. I hate that I'm asking my 4 year old to control his emotional responses but I, a grown ass woman, can't control my own. I almost always apologize to my kid after I've yelled, and even this seems disingenuous because I will inevitably do it again.

I have my good days and my bad days with the yelling. Sometimes I can recognize that my patience is thin and my temper is flaring and I can stop myself from yelling and reel it in. But then other times, I can't stop myself, even though as it's happening I know I'm not being the best I can be. I understand that I'm not perfect, and I accept that. I also accept that some days aren't going to be good days for me because the stress of parenthood is too overwhelming. I guess my goal is this: every day I will try to recognize that yelling isn't the best option I can choose, but I'm still only human. 

NO WAIT, IT'S THE FOURS! THE FRAZZLED, FITFUL FOURS!

You guys. I was warned by moms who have gone through it that, in fact, it's the FOURS that are the real ballbusters, and you know what? They are completely correct. My son, who turned four earlier this year, is........challenging. In both good and bad ways. It just depends. But basically I can sum it up like this: four years old is a three year old tantrum but with way more sass and attitude. Case in point: the other day, my son had waited too long to poop and thus had skid marks in his underwear. After I started to yell at him (since this was the 2nd day in a row he had done this while at home, 2 feet away from the bathroom) I realized the yelling wouldn't help so I tried to dial my reaction down a bit and speak more calmly. I explained that I was getting tired of washing soiled underwear every other day, and my son responded by stating "Well, if you don't wash my underwear then daddy will." I replied that maybe he would, and my son would have to take that issue up with his dad. My son's dead serious, matter-of-fact response: "well, if he doesn't wash my underwear, then I'm going to put my poop all over the wall. I'll put it all over the toilet paper and on the floor and on the table and on the mail. So if he doesn't wash my underwear, that's what I'm going to do." Needless to say, I couldn't hold my laughter in and that broke the tension for the time being, which was a positive thing. But seriously, what a little asshole! 

One trip around the sun

 My baby girl is turning 1 year old tomorrow, and I can hardly believe it. That was the fastest year of my life, and it was the year of the Covid, so that's saying something. 

**UPDATE**

I started the post above, and I never finished it. Go figure. That's actually a perfect example of what being a mom of two young kiddos is all about: starting things and then never getting the chance to finish them.

Anyhoo, my daughter turned 1 at the end of April, and it seriously came around lightning fast. You would think with how tired I am and how long the days can feel with these kids that it wouldn't have felt like it happened so quickly, but it did. And I have the sneaking suspicion that everything will be this way from here on out, because she is my last baby. And she's literally running to keep up with her big brother, so this girl is on a mission to grow up way faster than I'm prepared for her to. 

Thinking back on this year gets me all choked up, because amidst the Covid bullshit and the stress of two kids, my daughter brought so much joy to our home. I mean, maybe not for the boys in this house (pets included), but it has been nothing short of nirvana for me, having this sweet ball of energy and tenacity to wake up to every day. She is so unlike her big brother; she plunges headfirst into everything (figuratively and literally; she constantly has red spots on her head from using it as a battering ram) and isn't shy or timid towards anyone or anything (except for maybe her boy cousin who has been known to playfully swat her in the head a few times). She wakes up bright and early every day, no matter what time she went to bed; meanwhile her brother is still snoring for another hour. She loves being outside, no matter if it's hot or cold or raining. She is obsessed with books (both kids actually love reading). She loves the family pets and will attempt to pet, chase, climb on, etc (the boy couldn't care less about the animals). She loves getting her hands dirty in the sandbox or digging around in my tomato plants and then getting herself soaking wet at the water table. She puts just about everything in her mouth, which is not my favorite whatsoever, but at least she'll have a robust immune system. She is such a light in our lives and sometimes I can't believe I was ever afraid or intimidated when I found out I was having a girl. I couldn't imagine our lives without her. 

I'm at the point where I have to find a daycare for her, and I know that I'll be just as nervous and anxious about her starting as I was with my son. Even though she is a force, she's still a mama's girl and has plenty of "stranger danger" intuition. And as with my son, I know things will work out fine in the long run, but I don't want her to go quite yet. Even though she's running to do everything her brother is doing, she's still a baby in my eyes, and I would give anything to have one more day of baby snuggles with her. Hell, I'd even do some midnight feedings, just to have the chance to experience those moments again. As I've said in a previous post: don't blink. 

Closed for business

 Well, it's pretty much official, give or take a feeding here and there: this mom-bod is closed. Finished. Done with bearing/sustaining life beyond my own. For all intents and purposes, it's a bittersweet reality, but I'm definitely feeling the "bitter" more than the "sweet" right now.

After my daughter was conceived, the hubs and I had decided we wouldn't be having anymore kids after her, for multiple reasons. First, the cost of kids these days is significant, and we certainly didn't favor the idea of struggling financially, even more so than we theoretically would with two kids. Second, we waited until our 30s to even start trying to have kids; we old. And lastly, staying pregnant proved to be difficult for me; over the course of six years, I had five miscarriages and the two healthy pregnancies. It just didn't make sense (for us) to be trying for any more kids, since the chances of a successful pregnancy on the "first try" weren't really in our favor. The toll that pregnancy loss takes on one's mental and emotional well-being is a heavy one, and one that I didn't want to chance bearing again. 

And so before my second kid was born via C-section, when the doctor asked one more time to make sure that I still wanted my tubes removed during the surgery, I briefly joked that I wasn't sure but then confirmed that yes, we weren't planning for any more kids and to cut those things right out. But despite our resolute decision to be finished having kids, I mourned that "loss" for weeks, maybe even months after. Deep down, I knew it was the right decision for me, for all the reasons mentioned earlier. But there was also sadness in knowing that I would never again hold another life inside me, and it took awhile, much longer than I had anticipated, to process that finality.

Maybe every mom experiences this, but I'm feeling like my second kid is hitting all the milestones and benchmarks way quicker and earlier than my first kid. And thus, with breastfeeding, at 9 months old she has essentially indicated she's finished (I stopped nursing the first kid at 11 months). Nursing her is no longer a go-to, and really hasn't been for a couple of months now. She will occasionally nurse when she wakes up in the middle of the night, but that's about it; probably more for comfort than anything. I quit pumping when she was around 8 months, since the small yield wasn't worth the effort anymore. As soon as she started solid foods around 6 months, ol' girl was hooked. I swear she swatted away the breast in the AM in favor of pancakes. Luckily, I built up a decent stash, so she's still exclusively drinking breastmilk. I'm hoping that stash will take her to a year old when she can start cow's milk, but the way her appetite is climbing, I doubt it. (Update: my stash is almost gone, so looks like she'll be on formula for at least a month or so, which is obviously fine.)

When I realized one night recently that my daughter was pretty much done breastfeeding, it brought back all those feelings of sadness and grief that I felt when I had my tubes taken out. Despite the few inconveniences of it, I had a wonderful experience breastfeeding both my kids. I was very lucky that both they and I picked it up quickly and easily, and other than the occasional clogged duct here and there, it was extremely positive and fulfilling for all of us. As I laid in bed with my husband, I got emotional and cried as I discussed how this particular chapter of my baby's life was ending, as was my own. And even though I knew the day would come eventually, I just wasn't ready yet. Even as I type this, a month after starting the original post, I still don't feel ready to let it go. Just today, I attempted to breastfeed her in order to get her to settle down for her nap. She willingly started to nurse and then a few seconds later, started to slowly bite down on my nipple while starting to grin, knowing that she wasn't supposed to be doing it. After a couple of warning scolds, she just started laughing, the desire to nurse gone and now wanting to play and be silly. It's the first time I've offered breastfeeding to her in almost a week, and I mostly did it just to see if she would actually nurse. It would seem that she truly is finished, and I have a lot of feelings about it.

I feel sad that my breastfeeding journey is over. I will deeply miss the closeness it forged between me and my babies. It was something that was exclusively just us--mother and child. I also feel proud that my body was able to adequately provide food for my babies for as long as they needed it, despite the fact that my previous pregnancy losses had me feeling like my body had failed me. At the risk of sounding cheesy, it truly was an honor to be able to have breastfed both my kids with relative ease, and the joy it brought me will not be soon forgotten. And finally, I feel fucking ECSTATIC over the fact that I never have to wash breast pump parts EVER AGAIN.