The circle of life

I've thought about my own death before without too much anxiety, but now that I have a kid, I have come to the realization that the idea of dying scares the fuck out of me.

In a previous life where I embraced my Catholicism and wholly accepted that heaven and hell and all that existed, I sometimes speculated on what would happen to my soul after I died, and I did this without fear. I mean, even when we're asleep we're conscious and aware of our existence in some form or another, so surely when you die, your soul or consciousness will continue to live on in whatever way, right? But in giving up religion, I've had to confront and re-question what happens when you die. I've had to ponder the idea of simply ceasing to be and everything associated with existing--my subconscious, my consciousness, being self-aware, etc--just shutting off like a light switch. And that has been one of the most frightening, enigmatic things I've ever thought about, particularly now that my kid is around.

Numerous times, I've been home doing dishes or vacuuming or taking a shower while the baby is napping, and I'll feel my head throb for a second or I'll have a quick dizzy spell; nothing alarming. But what's triggered in my demented mind?

"What if I have a brain aneurysm and drop dead right now?"
"What if I go into cardiac arrest while the kid is playing on the floor?"
"If I'm dead, will the dog go after the baby?"
"If I'm lying dead on the floor, will the kid be ok until my hubs gets home from work?"

Or, as equally disturbing:

"What happens if a serial killer breaks in and kills me? What will happen to the baby? Will he/she take the baby? Will the baby grow up in some twisted Lifetime movie and never know about his real parents? Jesus, I need therapy and medication."

When I went back to work, I was sad and anxious because I didn't want to miss anything. I didn't want to be at work when my kid took his first steps by himself or said his first words. But after I worked through that in my head, a new worry seeped into my brain. What if I die and miss my baby's childhood? His adolescence? His adulthood? The thought of this happening is too much for me to bear, so most of the time I choose to just push these thoughts aside and not confront them. Once in awhile, my husband and I will discuss who we'd like to ask to take the kid if we both die in a fiery car crash or something, and that's about the extent of that. I cannot fathom not being around to see my baby grow up. I cannot go through that. Universe, are you listening? That scenario isn't going to work for me, so just forget it. It's not an option.

Conversely, when I hear news stories about parents whose children die, I wonder if I will ever find myself in that position. I have lost two babies by miscarriage, and while those losses were devastating they were very early on in my pregnancies. I believe it would be a vastly different experience to have a living child die. I hope I never have to see what that experience entails.

Parenthood has brought a lot of my inner neuroses out into the ether of the real world, clearly. My newfound fear of dying is just one in a long list.

I'm not ready

UPDATE:
My last day of nursing was about five days ago. The baby was being fussy before a nap, and I thought I'd try nursing him to calm him down. I put him in position, pulled out my boob and he latched on. After about 4 seconds of sucking, he pulled off and gave me this look that said "Uh, what's going on here?" It was like he was confused as to why I offered him my boob instead of a sippy cup or something. I tried again, and he latched again, but then he pulled off and gave me the same look. It honestly felt like he was trying to tell me that he's a big boy now and doesn't need to breastfeed anymore. Ok, I can take a hint. I bid farewell to breastfeeding after that. Do I miss it? A little. Am I happy to not have to worry about engorged breasts and planning outings around nursing and pumping? Definitely. Am I excited to get my boobs back in fighting shape? Hell yes. It was a great run and sometimes challenging, but I'm just thankful I was able to breastfeed at all, for as long as I did.

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This morning started off as usual. Baby wakes up, I go into his room, turn off all his machines (humidifier, sound machine and space heater), laugh and play with him through his crib slats for a minute and then change his diaper. Typically after all that is done, I will nurse him. This morning, I didn't. It didn't even cross my mind. After his diaper change, I put him on the floor and we played for a bit before he scuttled off into the hallway towards our room, where I let him into the bathroom to interrupt Dad's shower to say good morning. In fact, I didn't even offer the opportunity to nurse until the hubs was getting ready to walk out the door to go to work.

My milk supply is low. As low as it's ever been. My boy eats cheese and Ritz crackers and pancakes, in addition to his baby food, at meal times. My breast milk is no longer the star of the show. I am at the point where I still produce milk, but it's not enough to even make me feel engorged when I've gone a full night without expressing milk. 

I almost decided that maybe today was the day that I just stopped nursing, even though Remy is a month shy of his first birthday. My absent-mindedness with his morning nursing session seemed like a sign. Actually, the fact that Remy didn't whine out of hunger seemed like the universe telling me that today was the day to stop nursing. To holster and reclaim my boobs. To fully accept that Remy no longer exclusively depends on breast milk to nourish his body. 

I couldn't do it. I don't want to do it. I mean I do want to. But I don't. Ugh. 

This should be a no-brainer, right? Ever since my kid was born, I've been secretly lamenting the fact that my boobs are OC (outta control) since I breast feed. Look, they sit about two feet further down on my chest than pre-baby. They're flat and floppy and can contort every which way. They lay on my chest like deflated balloons. They are not the perky girls they used to be. So in theory, I should be thrilled about the end of breast feeding, because hopefully that will mean my boobs will come back up and join the rest of my chest where they used to sit so nicely. Not to mention I'd finally be free from the dreaded pumping sessions that have become more of a nuisance than what they're worth. 

But I couldn't do it. I'm not ready to let it go yet. 

The one thing that I had with my baby, just me and no one else, was breastfeeding (not to mention the infinite health benefits that come with it). In stopping breastfeeding, I am physically (and mentally) acknowledging that my baby is growing up and moving on to bigger and better things and no longer needs only me. (Cue me sobbing into my wine glass)

I'm projecting my insecurities and fears, I know. I have become that mom that I used to mock and scoff at and insist I would never be like. Well, I am her now. I am the mom you will roll your eyes at because I'm worried about EVERYTHING. I'm the mom that knows sleep training is beneficial for everyone but can't stand to hear her baby cry for more than 25 seconds so I screw it up. 

I'm not ready.