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.

What kind of mom am I going to be?

Now that the baby is a few months old and I've returned to work part-time, I've started to wonder about what kind of mom I am and what I can/should do differently as I parent a toddler. And I guess if I'm thinking about what kind of mom I am, I should take a look at my mom and my feelings about how she was a parent to me. That seems as good a place to start as any.

I suppose my overall, general perception of my mom could be summed up in one word: strict. When I was young, I just remember there being a lot of rules in my house. Bed time was at 9pm sharp. No R-rated movies were allowed in the house. Chore day was Sundays. Bedrooms were expected to be picked up; no piles of clothes on the floor. No TV during dinner. No food in the living room. There were certain TV shows that we weren't allowed to watch (oh, and we didn't have cable. To this day, they still don't.) You had better be on your deathbed if you were going to tell mom that you were too sick to attend school or church, and even then, she made us go 95% of the time either way. I could go on and on. We used to say the entire rosary as a family in the living room every Sunday evening. If we were traveling, we would say it in the car. Each kid had to recite a section of it. True story.

When my son left babyhood and embarked on his journey into toddlerhood, I tried my best to take it all in stride, considering what a neurotic, control freak I am. I knew that I had to learn how to relax, not stress about every little thing and to learn how to pick my battles if I was going to get through it unscathed. I cannot stress enough how important it has been for me to pick my battles. I'm not saying I get it right every time; I don't. But I try very hard to not sweat the small stuff. However, I'm still only human. And toddlers have a very super-human way of getting under the skin of even the most composed mom. 

I lose my patience and temper way too often. I yell more than I ever thought I would. And these things make me sad and disappointed in myself as a mom and as a person. I struggle sometimes between the push and pull of wanting to give my babies everything but also not wanting to turn them into spoiled, entitled brats. And it can be so difficult sometimes to keep your composure, especially at the end of a long day when your toddler hasn't napped and your baby is cutting teeth and cranky. But, I will *always* apologize to my kids and tell them I was wrong when I feel it's the case. Just the other night, my kid threw a tantrum for having to take a bath. He was running on no nap and he just looked exhausted, so naturally he fought me when I informed him it was bath time. Instead of recognizing his immediate handicaps (e.g. no nap) I escalated quickly myself and ended up yelling and setting a poor example for how a mom should act when her toddler is tired and being obstinate. I made a point to apologize to my kid the next morning and talk with him about what mommy did wrong, but also what he did wrong, too. I asked him to work on his temper and using calm words to explain his feelings, and I vowed to also work on improving mine. 

Sometimes I wonder if I had had kids earlier in life, if I would parent any differently than I do now. Overall, I think I would be the same; maybe just a tad more mellow and with more energy. But I don't regret waiting to have kids this late in life. If anything, I wasn't nearly mature enough to have children in my twenties. I'm barely mature enough to have them in my thirties. 

I think the takeaway from this question of what kind of mother am I going to be is something like this: as long as I love my children, the rest will happen how it happens. I never want my kids to question my love for them. I never want them to feel like they can't come to me when they're in trouble. I will not tolerate disrespect and I will never be the mom who tries to be BFFs with her kids. I will do my best to hold my kids accountable for their actions. I will not raise my kids to be entitled assholes. I hope I can be effective in teaching my kids how to have empathy for others. I hope my kids have confidence in themselves. I hope they grow up to be close with one another and have each other to lean on when mom and dad are gone. I hope they will take care of me when I can no longer take care of myself. I hope they will put love and positivity and activism and altruism out into the universe as they grow and get older. I hope they will love themselves. 

 

IT'S THE TERRIBLE THREES. I REPEAT: IT'S THE THREES. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

The title says it all. That's it. That's all. Beware the threes. The twos were a fucking dreamland. The threes will break you. My son is about 3 months away from turning 4, and there is an end in sight, so don't lose hope yet. Just stock up on the wine, hunker down and try not to have a nervous breakdown. 

The ugly truth (long post)

I'm sitting here thinking about a client of mine who recently had her first baby, not long after I had my second. This person is a bit of a hot mess--she can't take care of her own basic needs, let alone a baby's--and I've worried about how that child is going to fare ever since I found out about my client's pregnancy. Now that the baby is here, things seem to be just as I expected in terms of this baby's basic, essential needs not coming first and not being met. And it makes me angry and sad. Sad for the baby because she didn't ask to be born into this mess and angry at the mom because she wanted this kid, now she has it and she's not doing what she needs to do to properly care for her child. And I know why. Aside from her personality disorder, she's overwhelmed and under prepared for her new normal. Perhaps she thought "how hard can it be to take care of a baby? They don't do anything except eat, sleep and poop." And yet, from what I understand, she's struggling just to keep the baby clean and fed, for a multitude of reasons ranging from financial limitations to sheer laziness and selfishness on her part. 

And as much as I want to be angry with her for not acting responsibly, and believe me I am, I also think it's important to point out that she may very well have fallen into a false sense of reassurance that motherhood is a breeze and the illusion that knowing how to mother your offspring is just an inherent trait that all women have. That, like in nature, as soon as the baby pops out our primal instincts will guide us toward knowing exactly what to do in all aspects of the baby, from feeding to hygiene to health issues. And as you may well know, this just isn't true. First-time moms have so much to learn (hell, second- and third-time moms are still learning new things) and it can be a shit show for awhile for all of us, no matter what our pre-existing circumstances are. 

As I reflect on my own feelings about motherhood thus far with a 3-year old and a 4-month old, I can totally relate to the fact that so many moms are ill-prepared to meet the hard, shitty realities that come along with motherhood. Sure, squishy babies that smell amazing and adorable baby clothes can make the mom life seem like a Pampers commercial where all you do is laugh and play and roll around with your baby in a field of flowers while they are happy all the time and moms know how to do everything right all the time. But the ugly truth is that parenthood can be a blowout diarrhea shit some of the time. Or a lot of the time. And what pisses me off is that prior to having kids, I never heard my parent siblings or my parent friends ever talk about postpartum depression or feeling like a failure when the kid won't go to sleep at night or crying in the bathroom because the sleep deprivation is so punishing or having the fleeting moments where you're so exhausted and burnt out from this tiny human that came in like a wrecking ball that you think to yourself "what the fuck have I done and can you return babies??" All I ever saw or heard about were the milestones being met--rolling over, crawling, walking, first words--or the oohs and aahs about how cute the baby was. Perhaps I wasn't paying close enough attention to catch any of the negative stuff, since I was still so far away from being ready for my own kids. Well consider me on fucking high alert now. Universe, you have my attention. 

For starters, the experience I had in the hospital with my first kid felt like being in a room full of rabid telemarketers. I was inundated with people coming and going in my hospital room, and at times it felt intrusive and jarring. Just as I would drift off to sleep, a nurse would come barreling in or the person bringing food would stop by or some other random person. If I was supposed to be relaxing or bonding with baby after 9 months of pregnancy, that objective was drowned out by the guy coming in my room while I had my tits out feeding my son to hock family photo packages. This was especially disruptive when it happened all hours of the night. However, I did appreciate the constant influx of nurses checking in with me, since I didn't know what the fuck I was doing. I had a nice balance of nurses who did the basic minimum and nurses who really talked to me and dove into my questions with kindness. Honestly, in the time of COVID, my experience having my second kid was so much more relaxed and serene. Nurses only came in when they had to, there was no one pestering me three times a day about my kid's name for the SSA, and there was definitely no one barging in to ask me about a family portrait package. Plus I got to leave the hospital a day early since I had no issues and they didn't want me to have to be in the hospital any longer than needed, in order to lessen the possible risk of exposure to coronavirus. Despite not being able to have visitors, it was a great experience that second time around.

The first night home with my first kid was a NIGHTMARE. I might still have a touch of PTSD from that horror show. It was so awful that I dedicated an entire earlier post to just the first night home from the hospital. Feel free to scroll back and read it. I won't go into detail here; just know it was a shit show of epic proportions. Looking back now, it was the first of many times to come in which I would find myself crying on the bathroom floor because kids. I'm happy to report that my first night home with my second kid was leaps and bounds better.

Having kids has truly brought all of my neuroses front and center. The germaphobe, catastrophizing control freak that I am shines brightly as a parent. Everything from pinworms to abduction to drowning to him splitting his head open on the driveway because he's such a klutz and beyond are on my daily mental list of fears. And in this time of COVID, you better believe every sneeze or cough that escapes their faces makes me cringe because obviously they have coronavirus. Sometimes I re-fasten my baby's diaper six or seven times because I'm worried the scratchy tab part of the fastener will irritate baby's thigh. Yep. 

The sleep deprivation. Man, you thought you loved sleep before kids? Well kiss that luxury goodbye, because you will never get a truly good night's sleep with children in the picture until they grow up and get the fuck out of your house. And even then, I'm willing to bet the farm that I'll still lose some amount of sleep over my kids. Some of my personal experiences with this facet of parenthood tie directly to the fact that I'm a neurotic mess, so this may not be the case for everyone. But certainly in the beginning, the adjustment you have to make to your sleep schedule in order to keep the tiny human(s) alive is no small feat. Again, since I'm a psycho, I can probably count on one hand how many times I've truly had a full night's sleep since my 3 year old was born. Between leaping out of bed at the slightest whine to creeping into his room every two hours to check and see if his hands/face/ears are cold and adjusting the fan or space heater twenty different ways to Sunday to try and achieve the ultimate comfortable temperature in the room, I don't get much sleep these days. The universe threw me a bone with my daughter, in that she was sleeping through the night by 3 months old. Maybe that's late for some but it felt really soon for her to be doing this, so I thought I hit the jackpot there. As I type this, though, she has entered her 4 month sleep regression/growth spurt, so I've had to get up a few times for the past couple of nights in order to feed her. Oh, and the concept of having an infant and a toddler at the same time? I. Am. Tired.

Relationships are difficult enough on their own, but add kids to the mix and you're looking at yet another thing you have to work extra hard at and fall short on and thus will probably immerse you in guilt most of the time. In order to maintain a semblance of a connection with your partner, you have to be able to make room in your physical and mental space-time continuum to spend quality time with that person. As for me, when I've had a baby and a toddler hanging all over me all day, sucking every ounce of patience and energy away from me like leeches, the last thing I want to do at night is put any kind of effort forth to spend quality time with my husband. Don't get me wrong; I love and cherish him. But between getting menial tasks accomplished after the kids go to bed (because that's the only time anything extensive can get done) and making sure I have time to myself beyond just the time I will spend pumping before my own bedtime, I have no energy or inclination to take care of anyone else in my house. Countless nights, myself and my husband go to bed separately and usually without saying good night because I will inevitably pass out in my or my kid's room and won't wake up until the wee hours, at which point he's already gone to bed. We are two ships passing in the night in a bleary haze of fatigue. Why did we decide to have kids again? Kidding...kind of. 

Nothing and no one tests your mental limits quite the same way that your kid does. Because, at least for me, there is nothing that presents more of a dichotomy for me than my kids. I love these kids more than I am able to explain or put into words. I fought and endured to have these babies, and I am so grateful for the opportunity to be their mom. However, I cannot tell you how many times I have found myself so frustrated and angry over something related to my kids--the tantrums, the crying and screaming, the anxiety, the inability to reason with my toddler that he will not, in fact, die if I pour water on his head to rinse out the shampoo--that I have felt the push/pull of loving motherhood and hating it at the same time. Again, to be very clear: I love my kids. But I have found that I don't always love being a mom. And it's difficult to admit that to myself, even as I type out the thought, because it makes me feel like I'm not grateful for my kids. It makes it sound like I don't appreciate having these beautiful babies, and nothing could be further from the truth. But the hard truth about motherhood is that it's not always puppies and ice cream and sometimes you want to punch your kid in the face because you've asked him to do something for the 20th time and he has yet to do it. Obviously I don't punch my kids or act on these feelings in any way other than rage cleaning (yay!) or hiding in the bathroom for an ugly cry (or just crying right in front of my toddler because why not), but so many times I have found myself wanting to just scream into the void and then questioning my life choices but then smiling and laughing at these asshole kids who put you through the ringer and then make your heart feel so full in the next minute after. It's exhausting and confusing and rewarding and terrifying and beautiful.

At the very least, I hope that my mixed bag of feelings about motherhood and kids is helpful and comforting to hear for another frazzled mom. I hope that the ugly truths that I am happy to openly admit to anyone will reassure other parents that it's normal and ok to find parenthood both awesome and awful at times. I hope that more parents will admit to new parents that there will be dark days and many difficult moments. And I hope that when I think about the truth of motherhood for me, I will remember that the hard times are fleeting and cyclical. And that at the end of the day when I'm passed out in my son's bed with him, exhausted from whatever kind of day it was, I am lucky enough in this life to wake up the next day and do it all over again.  

 

Our new normal

Well, we are now a family of four. Man to man coverage. So far it's been pretty straightforward, and all the expected adjustments seem to be on point. No big surprises yet, which is exactly how I like it. I'm the overwhelmed mom: the one who can't seem to get her shit together, is always a little frazzled and lags behind all the other moms who appear to so easily shower on a daily basis, wear makeup and prepare home-cooked dinners whilst raising their five kids. So I can't handle too much extra stress or adversity when it comes to the kiddos. In fact, just the other day I saw a mom at the store who was walking around with her partner and a toddler while pushing a brand new baby in the stroller, and this baby appeared to have some kind of facial or cranial deformity that looked like it would affect her eyesight in a long term, serious manner. I got a little emotional thinking about how much stress and anxiety this mom must endure in having had a baby with a presumed birth defect, and I wanted to tell her how much a hot mess like myself admired her strength. It also reinforced to me just how lucky me and my husband are to have had two healthy babies born with no health issues.

Speaking of healthy babies born, my little girl was born on 4/27/20 at 10:25am. She was 6 lbs 13oz and 19 in long. I had another c-section, and overall it was a significantly better experience than my first, mostly because my anesthesiologist was amazing and the pain block he gave me was equally amazing. I wasn't nervous until the process began, and then I kind of felt like I was going to jump out of my skin. But as soon as they told me she was out, she immediately began crying at the top of her little lungs, and so did I. It was like being hit with a tidal wave of relief and joy, and for the first time since that little girl was conceived, I felt pure, uncomplicated love for this human who had joined our family. (Obviously I loved her already, but I was nervous at the idea of having a girl. I don't really know why.)

Oh, and even though the sleep deprivation is not nearly as shocking as it felt with my first, it is still PAINFUL. I am too damn old for this shit.

My toddler has adjusted pretty well to everything, considering his world changed drastically in multiple areas all at once; in addition to a new sister, he stopped attending school because of the pandemic, we moved to a new house and he also went a month and some change without seeing anyone else besides his mom and dad. He also didn't go anywhere in public for about 2 and half months. Some days are better than others; sometimes he wakes up with an attitude and mom and dad have to put that shit in check right off the bat. Other days he is sweet as pie. I'm doing my best to balance my time with him and the baby. Since I'm breastfeeding, I am tethered to the baby for a lot of the day, and I know that my son sometimes feels slighted because of this. He often tells me "mom, give Parker to daddy" when he wants me to snuggle with him or hold him. I do what I can when I can, but of course it feels like I'm not giving him enough attention. And then there are the times when he is being a shithead, and I have to remind him that it isn't all about him anymore, which is both necessary but hard to do.

We are surviving. We are trying to find our rhythm with the new baby and the pandemic. I return to work in a month. A MONTH. Maternity leave has flown by. I'm not ready to go back to work, but at the same time it will be clutch to get out of the house on a regular basis. There are multiple days in a row sometimes where I don't set foot outside the house or yard. I might go several days without driving my car anywhere, and it sucks big time. But the looming spike in COVID-19 cases keeps my ass from heading out unnecessarily. It will be nice when there is a vaccine for this bullshit.

Changes

Pregnancy must have made me go temporarily insane, because that's the only explanation for why I thought I could handle moving into a new house, having a baby and taking a vacation all at the same time. But it was cool. This is my second kid, I got this....right? And then the universe was like "Hey, a global pandemic sounds like fun!"

Maybe the universe sensed my growing anxiety as a result of overbooking myself, because we ended up deciding to cancel the vacation due to COVID-19. It's unfortunate timing because I was really looking forward to a vacation and a change of scenery, but it's not like we didn't have enough to do here at home with the new house. However, now we're facing down a whole other set of challenges with the pandemic: the work we wanted to have done at the house prior to moving in may not happen due to the governor shutting down nonessential businesses; the proximity of giving birth to a possible spike in numbers of infected people in the state causing all kinds of fresh anxiety for me; a delay in being able to move and not being in the new house by the time the baby is born. Fucking hell.

All of these things weren't even a blip on the radar a few months ago. Just goes to show you what a rapid-fire novel virus can do to your plans, I guess.

*******************
UPDATE: since I'm a procrastinator and didn't finish the above post in a timely fashion, I have some happy news to share. Turns out painters, carpet cleaners and movers are "essential workers," so we were able to proceed with getting into the new house a little earlier than planned due to canceling our vacation. So...gutters and strikes. Overall, though, I'm so glad to be in the new house in time for this baby to arrive. During our last two weeks in the old house, the universe reinforced our need to get the fuck out of there by way of the yearly ant invasion that happens in the spring, as well as the unwelcome visit of a mouse in the living room late one night. Hint taken. So we got the fuck out, and I couldn't be happier about that.

However, COVID-19 has still made life a little more cumbersome. My work closed down, forcing me to work from home, which is completely not conducive to the type of job I have; I'm a social worker and used to seeing my clients face to face in a vocational skills program setting. My son's daycare closed down as well, so in addition to navigating a whole new way of doing my job, I now had childcare responsibilities to juggle along with that. My husband also started working exclusively from home, which sounds like an ideal situation when you have a toddler to take care of all day, and we did have some effective tag-teaming going on when necessary, but overall I took on most of the kid care, thus resulting in getting a lot less work done and eventually getting written up for not meeting my productivity standard. That pissed me off for a minute, but what was even more upsetting to me was the dejection in my kid's face at times when he wanted me to play with him and I had to tell him that I couldn't because I had work to do. So, I decided to go on maternity leave a few days earlier than planned, because right now spending time with my son before he has to share mommy and daddy with a sibling is more important to me than trying to keep up with a bullshit productivity standard for work.

Speaking of the new baby, tonight is the last night my kid will go to bed here at home an only child. He will stay overnight with his grandma tomorrow night since I have to be at the hospital first thing Monday morning for my c-section, and then he will be a big brother with a new sibling and a new normal. Obviously I'm anxious about how he will do with the new baby and how he will feel about having to share his mom and dad with someone else. He is my rainbow baby, my whole world (for better or for worse) and I know I have carved him out to be the center of everything just about every day since he was born. I mean, don't get me wrong, when he's being rude or obstinate I will demand he straighten up or face the consequences; he's not utterly spoiled to the point of obnoxious. But he is my firstborn and I willingly admit I am probably more accommodating to him than I ought to be sometimes. So I worry that a sibling will completely mess up his world for awhile amidst all the other new changes that have happened all at once (new house, daycare closing, pandemic life, etc). I know, I know, we will all be ok and things will sort themselves out. In the meantime, worrying about my kid is actually keeping my mind off the anxiety about *my* new normal and how *I'm* going to handle the big changes coming. Ready or not, here comes baby! I'm just crossing my fingers that the second time around, the sleep deprivation isn't quite so shocking and profound.

 

Working mom and adult time

Last night, the hubs and I went out to a comedy show, a gift I had gotten him months ago for his birthday. We had the day all planned out: drop the kid off at grandma's, go to some open houses nearby, head to a quick dinner and then off to see the show. An almost full day of just the two of us doing adult stuff and spending time together. It was going to be awesome.

My husband said it best: "The best laid plans..." *eye roll, shrug* That's because right when we were getting dressed and getting his bag packed up to leave, the kiddo decided to pukeface all over the couch and floor. This followed an epic diarrhea diaper earlier that morning. And he had been fighting something for the last couple of days, as this was the fourth or fifth pukeface since Thursday of last week. But in our defense, we had been lulled into a false sense of security that everything was ok, because the previous day came and went with no alarming bodily fluid ejections.

Obviously we didn't feel right taking a pukeface, mud butt toddler over to grandma's house and making it her problem, so we cancelled plans to go to the open houses, and the hubs went to Costco to grab something for dinner. My saint of a mother-in-law agreed to just come to our house and watch the kiddo while we went to the show later in the evening. Oh, and he puked all over himself and the couch while we were gone, so she ended up having to deal with that, and she washed the soiled clothes, blanket, couch cover, etc. A saint, I tell you.

As we left the show that night, my husband thanked me for getting the tickets, and I made a comment along the lines of "well we never really celebrate each other's birthdays or anniversary with any significance anymore, so I wanted to actually make an effort this year." And we chatted for a minute about how having a kid has changed the way we prioritize each other and has basically pushed most things to the back burner, including our own birthdays and what not. (Case in point: we still haven't made it to the fancy restaurant I wanted to go to for Mother's Day this past year) I mused "maybe with this next baby we will be more relaxed and laid back, since it's coming in the spring and we will have more opportunity to get out and about earlier." (We had our son in the dead of winter, so obviously I didn't leave the house for three months) And then I remembered how neurotic and anxious I am about everything and I laughed at myself for thinking I could ever be relaxed with a newborn.

At lunch this past weekend, an ADULT lunch with my husband, brother and SIL (we threw our kids at my parents and ran for it), my SIL and I joked about how much we crave adults only time or alone time, but when we're actually away from our babies we miss them and just want to get back to them. Of course, my husband had a different opinion:

SIL: "But don't you ever miss him when you do actually get time away from him and want to get back and see him?"
Husband: "No! You have to take full advantage of the time away and enjoy yourself!"

I made the point that one of the reasons why I miss my kid when I'm away from him, even just for a couple of hours, is because I work full time, I'm not a stay-at-home mom, and when I do spend time with him during the week, it's morning and evening routines in order to stay on schedule, which can feel regimented and restricted rather than actual quality time. So I really try to maximize our time together on the weekend. For better or worse, I like to have lazy mornings on the weekend, snuggling, watching cartoons and eating cereal in bed and not getting dressed for the day until at least the ten o'clock hour. I know toddlers need to stay on a schedule, even on the weekends, but I figure we have five days a week we are rushed and hurried in the mornings and evenings; two days a week of getting off course isn't going to kill us.

Recently, I had a particularly challenging morning where everyone was running late, I was stressed and trying to get the kid fed and his teeth brushed as quickly as possible so that we could try to get to school/work on time, and then my kid decided mid-way through breakfast that he had to poop and wanted to sit on the potty. As a mom who has been trying to encourage using the potty as much as possible, who was I to deny my kid when he requested to use the potty?? Obviously, I already knew as we dilly-dallied up the stairs that I was going to be late for work, so I texted my boss who should've fired me a long time ago for tardiness that I was going to be late to work because of my "goddamn kid." He didn't end up pooping on the potty (go figure), but he did poop in his diaper about five minutes after getting off the potty.

I've never really wanted to be a stay-at-home mom, but that morning, I wanted nothing more than to shed the stress and frantic morning pace of trying to be on time and have the serenity of knowing that if my kid wanted to spend thirty minutes trying to shit on the potty, that he could and being late to work wouldn't be a consequence. On the other hand, work gives me the opportunity to be among adults and have the adult time that I know I want and need. I have a sneaking suspicion that if I decide to stay home and not work after baby #2 is born, I will be much more willing and enthusiastic to prioritize adult time into my routine as a way to stay sane and connected to other grown-ups. However, these days with kids and jobs and families, the opportunity to spend time with friends isn't always a sure thing. At least with a job, you're guaranteed a daily dose of time with other adults.

I know there are pros and cons to being a stay at home mom, as well as being a working mom. I'm doing the working mom thing now, and while I'm hesitant to let that go (bye-bye, financial independence...yikes) I do think it might be worth it to give staying at home a try. I know I can always get a job later if I really need/want to. But any major transitions or changes give me anxiety, so I haven't yet completely made up my mind. Maybe I'll wait and see how late I'm running tomorrow morning and revisit the issue.

Being a mom is messed up

Picture this, as I'm sure many moms can easily do: it's my kiddo's first day at daycare. He's one year old. Drop-off was full of tears and him frantically grasping for me as I tried to limit my hugs goodbye to a mere fifteen. When I finally managed to get my sorry ass out the door and to my car, I sat in the car and cried for about ten minutes. I had taken the day off work because I knew I would be worthless there that day, and I spent the rest of my day leaning on my mom and sisters for support as I intermittently weeped over my baby's first day away from me. If I'm correct, I believe I picked him up by 4pm that day, unable to spend another minute with him possibly thinking I abandoned him to a bunch of strangers.

Fast forward to today: my kiddo is 2 1/2 years old and has just changed classrooms this week. He has a new teacher but familiar friends in his class. When I drop him off at school, my routine now is to fill out his daily sheet, give it to him to take to his teacher and ask for "one more hug, one more kiss" before sending him into his day, which he has gotten pretty good at doing without any fuss. Today was pretty normal; he took his sheet from me and started to walk away, and I quickly pulled him back for "one more hug, one more kiss." He endured this affection from me and as I stood up to leave, he walked over to his teacher, gave her his sheet and took his place on the floor where the other kids were sitting for story time. He didn't even give me a backward glance, which is not necessarily a bad thing, as we've had our share of difficult goodbyes because I've lingered too long and/or he just doesn't want to let go of me. I exited the building, got into my car, gave myself a high five in my mind for a quick, easy drop off...and then I started to tear up.

I'm happy my kid feels confident enough now that he doesn't need to cling to me or cry because I'm leaving him. He knows well enough now that "mommies and daddies come back." And this is a great thing; it means he feels good about his teachers and his friends and his school, which makes me feel good about those things, and also I'll probably get to work on time. But because the emotions of a mom are so fucked up and nuanced, at the same time I felt a little sad, too. It was a "happy" sad, which I can't really explain, but for the moms reading this, you already know what I'm talking about, and I don't have to put it into words. You understand exactly how I was feeling this morning after drop-off and why I was feeling that way, because more than likely you've been right there with me yourself. Being a mom is totally messed up sometimes.

Terrible twos?

I'm not sure if we're into the throes of the "terrible twos" yet, but it has sure felt like it a handful of days recently. It seems like my kid's new favorite pastime is challenging rules and pushing boundaries. I realize this is a completely normal thing for toddlers to do as they explore and learn about the world around them, but does it have to be all the goddamn time?? *eyeroll*

Sometimes I find myself desperately wishing for my kiddo to stay little forever, as many moms do in those feverish moments of not wanting to get any closer to the day when that little jerk won't need his mother as much as he does right now. Having said that, I do long for the days when I don't have to change diapers anymore and when my kid doesn't need naps. That's important enough to say again: I can't wait for my kid to outgrow naps. Because then I can stop feeling like a failure when I don't plan right and he misses his nap or he only gets an abbreviated nap and melts down later. Maybe it's just me, but I find it very difficult at times to balance activities and nap time. It really reinforces just how critical it is for toddlers to stick to a schedule, especially mine. This is rarely a fun thing to try and achieve, especially on the weekends, but when we get off schedule, we basically fuck ourselves over in one way or another and end up paying dearly for that shiz. Now I truly understand why it was so important for my friends to cut social events short in order to take their kids home to nap while I rolled my eyes at their stringent schedule-keeping. I get it now, and I'm so sorry for ever questioning why it was so important for your kid to stick to a napping schedule. Please forgive my past, child-less ignorant foolishness.

I recently found myself marveling at (and also staring adoringly at, probably making the moms uncomfortable) some little boys in public spaces who were behaving like fucking saints. Standing still, quiet, well-behaved and not at all constrained (i.e. not strapped into a stroller or cart). I don't know if this is ok to admit or if I should feel bad, but my first thought was aw, what a cute kid and then my immediate second thought was I bet my kid wouldn't be as well-behaved as he is. I'm a cynic, ok? I often sell my kiddo short in the behavior department because I just assume he's gonna be an asshole most of the time since he's all of two years old. I don't give him enough credit sometimes, I know that. But I also know how I am as a parent, and I realize that I haven't yet reached a point where I've ceased to coddle my child. I haven't become so disenchanted with his shenanigans that I don't baby him anymore. I still baby him all the time, because he's my baby and because I'm a bleeding heart. So therefore, my kid will sometimes act like an asshole when he's on one or in a mood, and then I have to deal with the fallout which I basically deserve anyway.

On the other hand, I feel like I'm starting to see results of my efforts to be a decent parent and teach my kid the concept of gratitude and appreciation. More and more often, when I give my kid his cup or bring him a basketball or hand him something he wants, he will say thank you without prompts. I still have to remind him to say "please" most of the time, but baby steps. However, sometimes when he does something unkind and I instruct him to apologize to someone for what he did, he will hesitate and not respond. If I'm especially stern in my demand for him to apologize, it's even more difficult to get him to say he's sorry, which kind of makes sense to me and kind of doesn't at the same time. Maybe he's starting to learn how to process feelings of guilt, I'm not sure. But he's two years old, so I'm trying not to read into it too much.

I've been told by numerous moms that the phrase "terrible twos" is pretty much antiquated; the new reality is "terrible threes" or "threenager." Fuck. If this isn't the worst of what's to come, I'm gonna need more wine.

Mom and the terrible, horrible no-good, bad day (weekend)

This past weekend was really difficult. My kid seriously tested my patience, without really even intending to do so. FYI, patience is a virtue that's almost impossible to maintain when you're dealing with a toddler who has no concept of time. Really, though, in the end the battle was more with myself than my kiddo.

Basically, there were a couple events this weekend where we needed to be relatively on time. I struggle with keeping a stricter napping schedule on the weekends, because it's the freakin' weekend, and we all want to sleep in a little. But if that happens, then everything gets pushed back, including nap time. Normally this isn't a big deal if we have nothing on our calendar for the evening, but this weekend we had places to be around the five o'clock hour. Incidentally, that's usually the time the kiddo gets up from his nap. And all you parents out there already know that it takes at least six hours to get a toddler up, ready and out the door. You do the math.

I won't go into painstaking detail about the incidents, because we all know what frustration feels like. But what I struggled with the most, and ended up sobbing about in the car was containing that frustration and impatience and not taking it out on a two year old who has no idea what time management is yet. I am ashamed to say that I was quicker to anger than I normally am, and I ended up yelling; yelling at my kid, yelling at the dog, yelling at myself, yelling at the slow driver in front of me. Even as I was shouting, I was also telling myself that yelling wasn't making the situation better, and all it was doing was showing my kid that it's ok to have a volatile reaction to something. But I couldn't pull it back and snap out of it. I was at the end of my rope and tired of every little thing being a battle with my kid: diaper changes, washing hands, putting a jacket on, throwing food and toys, picking up thrown toys. I. Was. Done.

And so I yelled. I yelled at my kid that we didn't have time to walk up and down the steps ten times. I yelled that if we didn't get our diaper changed, we couldn't go to grandma and grandpa's house. I yelled at my kid to pick up the magnets he started taking off the fridge and throwing. In anger, I grabbed the markers out of his hands that he had decided to start drawing with while in the midst of avoiding the diaper change. I yelled while he threw a tantrum and tried to escape my arms when I picked him up to put him in his car seat. I yelled into the void just to try and release some of the frustration and helplessness I was feeling.

And then I cried like a baby. I cried because I lost my cool in front of my kid over the fact that he was just being a kid. I cried because I was tired of trying to reason with a toddler. I cried because I'm tired all the time. I cried because I felt like a failure. I cried because I felt guilty for not keeping my composure. I cried because even though he could've started screaming at me a few times in the midst of *my* temper tantrum, he had tried to talk to me and even make me laugh.

As luck would have it, today was a pretty good day. It didn't start out great; he refused a diaper change and since I was still entertaining a low threshold for patience from the weekend, I left him with my husband and went downstairs to fix breakfast and heard him screaming in protest as I walked down the stairs. But, when I dropped him off at school, even though he didn't want me to leave, there were minimal tears and no screaming from him. He ate well at all his meals and didn't put up too much of a fight when it was time to wash hands. Diaper changes were easy after he got home (ok, the tablet gets credit for that). Pajama time was easy (again, thanks to the tablet) and when it was time to put the tablet down and head into the bedroom for story time, he did so on his own without putting up a fight. And bedtime was easy as well.

So, just like that, we had a couple of bad days followed by a really good one. Thus is life with a toddler, I suppose. But the real question I have now is this: what do I need to do, as the adult, to try and improve my attitude and expectations for these difficult moments that I know are always going to pop up? What should my homework assignment be so that I can work on not being so quick to anger next time my kid tests my patience? How do I do better next time? It's helpful to remind myself of the mantra that my OBGYN instructed me to say to myself in times of stress: everything is a phase.

So today, I again found myself in a time crunch, needing to get on the road to get the kid dropped off at school and my ass to work, and my kid wanted to play with his basketball in the yard. Knowing that picking him up in a hurried rush would backfire and probably cause him to start screaming and flailing, I chose to merely communicate that we needed to leave and that we had to get in the car. I then offered him to opportunity to climb up in his seat by himself, which he always wants to do now, and much to my surprise he took the bait and got into the car. No running away, no tears, no screaming. It was awesome. I patted myself on the back for the feat of not getting frustrated and losing my cool with the kiddo, knowing full well that tomorrow will most likely be a shit show. But every mom knows that you gotta take the small victories when you can, and so I did.

Working on my fitness

If you know me, you know that working out and physical fitness and all that shiz has never been my top priority. Do I want to be skinny? Yes. Do I want to look good naked? Sure do. But if it's at the expense of giving anything up anything that I love (booze, saturated fat, etc) then count me out. My history with working out has been spotty at best. I will work out consistently for a few months, and then I will let it go and not do a single exercise (other than walking to the bar) for months, until something motivates me to drag myself back to the gym or to the park to run with the dog. The sad part is that when I was working out consistently in college or in my twenties, I actually saw real results, which was awesome. But again, working out has never meant as much to me as it does to some.

Fast forward to two years post-baby and my late thirties, and I'm learning quickly that working out has become more of a crucial necessity than a laissez-faire attitude. Now that my kiddo is 20+ lbs, and with the specter of a second baby lurking in the back of my mind, I've realized that I absolutely have to make my physical fitness and strength more of a priority now than I ever have. And with that realization, I'm happy to report that I have actually managed to integrate this into my life rather successfully. And it's all due to an article I read on NPR's website about a little 22-minute workout.

I used to assume that in order to get an effective workout in, you had to be able to devote at least an hour or two at the gym. Because that's what I used to do when I was working out consistently. Whether it was in college or my twenties when I had both the time and inclination to spend it at the gym, I would usually spend a minimum of an hour on my workout. Since becoming a mom, I'm lucky if I have half that amount of time in the daylight to do jack shit for myself.

Disclaimer: I am totally the mom that spends just about all of my time with my kid or doing stuff for my kid, and yes, that makes me totally lame. I pass up opportunities all the time to go to Pacer games or concerts because it's bath night, or because my kid will die if I'm not there to put him to bed. Or maybe it's me who will die if I'm not part of every single minute of my kid's existence. Yep, that's me. Winner. Right here. But I digress.

So I read this article on NPR about how a 22-minute workout is just as effective as, say, an hour-long workout in terms of improving physical fitness, weight loss, etc. And since time for myself is at a premium these days, I thought why the fuck not. The reality is I do not have two hours to spend at the gym. We joined the YMCA back in December, and if I'm being honest with myself, the most ideal time for me to go and get a decent workout in is early in the AM before work. Talk about a daunting task. So I started to implement this 22-minute workout on the evenings that my husband put the kid to bed. I would quickly kiss my kid goodnight, rush to change into workout clothes and dash downstairs to the treadmill where I would do about 10-15 minutes of cardio, then 10 minutes of weights and then a few minutes of stretching. That routine would vary; sometimes I would spend more time on cardio if I was feeling particularly energetic or motivated. Sometimes I would get interrupted during strength training because my kid would start crying for me to come and rock him to sleep. Sometimes I would forget to stretch because I would get distracted by dishes or laundry. But the point is this: I was moving my fat ass and finally focusing on my body.

Some people can't relate to this reality: pregnancy fucks you up. Forever. Unless you're a teenager and your body bounces right back, carrying and birthing a baby will have significant effects on your body. Boobs sag and never come back up. C-section scars will magically push those mom guts out and over your waistband. Bladders will never feel quite right and you'll pee yourself when you sneeze. It's really easy to become very disheartened by this and, as a result, just not give a shit about how your body looks. If you're me, after doing the most major shit I've ever done, I just flat out didn't give a fuck about how I looked anymore. I didn't care about my gut or my saggy boobs or my ugly skin or my unkempt appearance or the spit-up stain on my shirt. I approached it with a "what? fight me" attitude. I had a baby, and these were my battle scars. This was my reality now, and I silently dared anyone to criticize my appearance. In hindsight, I'm sure I was also subconsciously (ok, consciously) making excuses for letting myself go. Though, I will defend the fact that having a C-section is a major fucking event and is not to be taken lightly.

Finally, two years after having a kid, I've decided that I'm sick and tired of still not fitting into some of my pre-pregnancy clothes or having to size up in pants because of my mom gut. I'm worried that when it comes time to have another baby, my sciatica with constantly flare up because I've failed to move my body in any meaningful way. And even after just a few months of working out whenever I possibly can find time to do so, I'm thrilled to report that I feel so much better, in every way possible. I feel empowered by the conscious decision to exercise, even if it's for a mere 45 minutes. I feel the bliss of devoting 100% of however much time I have to me and only me. I feel a sense of achievement when I push myself a little more at the gym. I feel pride when I wear workout pants to the store because I've actually just finished a workout, as opposed to when I wear them because I just don't want to wear real pants (which is most of the time). I walked around today consciously aware of the fact that even though I didn't necessarily look any thinner in the mirror, I actually felt thinner. I felt like I was walking around with better posture and an engaged core. Me. The girl who hates working out. I know, right.

I guess the point I'm trying to make here is this: It's never too late to care about your body and your wellness. It's never a waste to spend even the smallest amount of time on your body, and it may just motivate you enough to get you to a point where you actively seek out time for exercise, wellness, meditation, or whatever you feel like you need to feel your best. The other night, I felt a little guilty because rather than jump on the treadmill for fifteen minutes when I had the opportunity, I opted to lay in bed and finish reading my book instead. But I eventually reminded myself that my needs and priorities for my wellness go way beyond just a physical, aerobic expression. Contributing to my wellness may mean some quiet time reading or browsing aisles at Target or potting some indoor plants. Fitness doesn't always limit itself to gross motor activity. You absolutely have my permission to skip the gym today and spend some time reading or getting a massage or catching up on sleep. Do what you gotta do.

Pregnancy loss (warning: some graphic details about miscarriage)

I've posted about my previous two miscarriages that occurred prior to having my son, and for some reason I thought after having a healthy pregnancy and birth with him, there wouldn't be any more major hurdles to jump when the time came to try for another. As usual, the universe was like "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAAHHAHAHAHA, fuck you."

Late last year, I experienced a chemical pregnancy. This is a very early miscarriage where you are technically pregnant and that pregnancy is viable enough to show up on a pee test, but then something happens and the pregnancy just goes away and you have your period instead. If you're not tracking things closely enough, you probably wouldn't even know you're pregnant and just assume your period was a few days late. Because of my previous multiple miscarriages, I get early blood draws to make sure the hormones are at a good level based on how far along I am and that the HCG then doubles every 48 hours as it is supposed to do. If I recall correctly, it was maybe only an hour or so after that second blood draw that I started to spot and then bleed. I figured I was having a miscarriage, contacted my doctor and was confirmed in my assumption when the blood draw results came back and showed that my levels had already started to decrease. It was a blow to the old psyche, for sure, but I was grateful that it happened as early on as it did. Miscarriages are so much easier to deal with when you're not far along in your pregnancy (at least for me) and haven't gotten hopes up too high yet.

Skip ahead a few months, and I get another positive pregnancy test. I was a little more cautious this time and I didn't tell my husband right away, for fear that it would just be another chemical. After a few days, though, when my tests continued to show relatively strong lines, I shared the news with him with some optimism behind it. But again, I had to face the dreaded blood draws to see if hormone levels were good and doubling. First draw: good levels. Second draw: levels had risen, but not doubled. Third draw: levels had a good rise, but still not doubled. Fourth draw: levels had almost doubled, and the doctor was optimistic for a healthy pregnancy. With excitement and a positive attitude, I scheduled my first ultrasound for the next week, what would've been my 7th week of pregnancy. And then the other shoe dropped.

I woke up on a Friday morning with a moderate amount of bleeding and cramping. As soon as I saw the nature of the bleeding, I was almost positive I was miscarrying. I shared the news with my husband and decided that I was going to stay home from work and contact my doc to see what I should do. As the day progressed, so did the bleeding. It was extremely heavy and like nothing I'd ever experienced, not even after having given birth. I could literally feel the blood coursing out of me, along with medium-sized clots that would just fall out of me while I sat on the toilet. I remember thinking there's no way this is anything but a miscarriage. My doctor's office ordered a blood draw to see what my hormone levels were, and if they were good, I would most likely then have an ultrasound to see if the bleeding had any other cause. I was barely able to make it to the lab for the blood draw; I had to stop on the walk to the lab from the car to change my pad because I was bleeding so heavily. Afterwards, I went home and continued to hemorrhage blood and have heavy cramping. I just laid in bed, only getting up when necessary to change my pad, since it was pointless to move around or do anything; that only exacerbated the situation. Later that afternoon, I called my doctor for the results of the blood draw. The levels had only risen a little since the last blood draw; they hadn't even doubled. So it was clear at that point that I was definitely miscarrying. I was given instructions for monitoring the bleeding and had to schedule an ultrasound for early next week to make sure I had passed all the products of conception.

For the rest of the afternoon, I laid in bed, bleeding and wishing for those huge phone book-sized diaper pads you get in the hospital after you give birth. Up to this point, I had actually been relatively calm through it all, considering the circumstances. I was, of course, extremely sad and disappointed at this turn of events, but it wasn't my first walk down this road. My catharsis, though, came when I drifted off to sleep at one point and then later woke up to find that I had bled through my clothes and onto the bed. It so happened that the mattress protector we normally have under our fitted sheet had been taken off earlier that week to be washed, so I was pretty upset when I saw the mattress had a blood stain on it. I tried to get as much of the stain off, but it wasn't really coming up. At this point, it was time to change my pad again, and as I was walking into the restroom, I felt my body pass a large amount of something. Upon sitting down on the toilet, I observed a large piece of tissue or something like it in my underwear. I remember thinking it looked like it could've been a piece of umbilical cord but I had no idea if the umbilical cord was even formed or could be that large at 6 weeks pregnant. It was at that point that I lost my shit, and everything crashed down.

For a few minutes, all I could do was sob hysterically. A thousand things were going through my mind, and I felt so many emotions all at once. Grief and sadness for my loss, regret and anger at myself for letting myself think this pregnancy would work out, frantic confusion about what to do with this "thing" in my underwear...this "thing" that had been a part of the life growing inside me and was now dead and evacuated from my body. I remember closing my eyes while I sat there crying and hoping so badly that when I opened them, this piece of me would be gone and I wouldn't have to deal with it anymore. I felt scared and unsure about what to do with it--do I just flush it down the toilet where all the other clots and tissue that had been falling out of me all day went, too? A part of me felt like that was a horrible thing to do; after all, even though this wasn't the actual embryo it was still a part of the whole being. However, on the other hand, I figured the embryo had probably already been expelled during one of the numerous trips to the toilet that day, so what was the big deal to just place this in the toilet and be done with it. I wanted so desperately to have someone there with me to tell me what I should do, what the right thing was. After some time, I eventually decided to flush the tissue down the toilet since I didn't want to just put it in the trash can.  I wrapped it up, crammed my eyes shut and placed it in the toilet. A fresh wave of sobbing commenced as I flushed the tissue down the toilet, and I felt a profound sadness in my heart that I was wholly unprepared to experience.

As traumatizing as the above incident was, it was also the catalyst I needed to actually grieve my loss in a real, tangible way. Throughout my multiple miscarriages, I internalized so much of those experiences, so the act of sobbing and shaking and feeling all those things I did while I sat on the toilet for those few minutes was actually a welcome reprieve from the stoic tension I had been holding onto all day. My guess is that so many women go through their pregnancy losses feeling that tension, and hopefully they get to release it and grieve, but maybe they don't for whatever reason. I just know that for me, I needed that hysteria to work through this latest miscarriage and to allow myself to feel a multitude of emotions.

After the miscarriage, I decided that I wanted to take some time off from trying to get pregnant. At first, I wasn't entirely convinced it's really what I wanted deep down, but it seemed like the appropriate thing to do after two losses. Plus, after a miscarriage, the OBGYN will usually advise you to have one or two cycles before trying again, which mine did. So I put everything fertility-related out of my mind; I didn't chart a goddamn thing or pee on a single stick. After some time, I did chart any menstrual activity, just so I would have some idea of where I was in my cycle. Miscarriage can fuck your cycle up for a little bit or a long time, depending on how far along you were. My cycle got back to normal relatively quickly, probably within a little over a month.

The farther I get from my most recent miscarriage, the more I realize how stressful this latest saga of trying to get knocked up has been on me and how much I really just needed a break from it. It was a crushing blow, but in the aftermath, I focused more on my kiddo and my husband and I indulged the fuck out of some wine and sushi. And let me tell you, when sex isn't primarily about conceiving and more about just being with your partner, it's pretty great. As I type this, I'm ovulating. And enjoying a beer. And I have no plans to try and get my hubs to have sex with me tonight, because I'm actually in a pretty good place right now, and it has nothing to do with being pregnant or trying to get pregnant. It has everything to do with the fact that I'm taking care of me in whatever way is necessary. I went to the gym today for the first time in more months than I care to admit, and it was FUCKING AMAZING. Anyone who knows me knows I hate working out, but the forty minutes I spent at the gym today felt like I had found a golden ticket. It was the first time since my son was born that I really felt like I was reclaiming time for myself with zero guilt about anything. I recently changed my work schedule, and it allows me to leave work an hour early three days a week, which I plan to spend that extra "me time" working out or doing whatever I feel like doing. That freedom and opportunity is exactly what I need right now, and perhaps a pregnancy will eventually come back around as the priority. For now, though, it's all about me.

The quest for baby #2

When I think about how difficult the adjustment was to being a first time mom with my son, I have to question my sanity over the fact that we're currently trying to get pregnant again. The truth is, I want another baby for multiple reasons, but deep down I'm terrified at the idea of having a second kid, also for multiple reasons.

One of the pros of having another kid means a sibling for my son. I have six siblings myself, and while I definitely do not want to have six of my own kids, I'm happy with the fact that I've been blessed with a hoard of brothers and sisters who all have my back and who I can go to when I need support. And lemme tell you, we are a diverse bunch. It gives me perspective about the big wide world and the variety of humans that inhabit it. I want my kid to experience the joys and pains of a sibling; learning how to share space and share toys and share a car and a room and how to coexist with others and what it means to make sacrifices. Also, hello, built-in playmate! It can be difficult getting dinner ready or doing any kind of menial task when your kid is pulling you this way and that way and wants to be held and wants to take your hand and run back and forth and fall down because he thinks it's hilarious. A sibling, when old enough, is the ideal playmate for my son when I have to get shit done. Another pro for having more than one kid: knowing that when I'm old and dying, my son can lean on his sibling(s) to help him bear the burden of whose house I'm going to move into and who gets to take care of their dear mother when she can no longer care for herself.  Time for someone to change MY diapers, am I right?

Simply put, I have baby fever. I've had three miscarriages, and I felt those losses deeper than I ever could've imagined. And even despite that, I still have the motivation and desire to continue trying. Now, that may not last too much longer because I might just decide I'm too old for this shit if I'm 40 and still trying for that second baby. But right now, I'm not ready to give up. When I was pregnant with my son, despite the gestational diabetes and the constant worry in the back of my mind that I would lose him, too, I had a pretty easy pregnancy, and I loved just about every minute of it. Every day that I was lucky enough to carry that sweet baby, I was grateful and happy to do it. Selfishly or not, I want to experience that again.

Obviously, a second baby is not without its disadvantages. Though temporary (I hope!), the jealousy my son has in his heart any time he sees his mama holding another baby is stronger than the radiation emanating from a thousand suns. This kid is a jealous Joe to the max. The other day when I was holding my 3 week old niece, my son came out of nowhere, made a beeline for me and tried to claw his way up into my arms to right the treasonous act of me holding another human that isn't him. It was sweet.

I tend to not handle stressful situations involving the kiddos the best I probably could, but I am learning to do better. For example, when I'm bone-tired and my kid will not settle and go to sleep, I can't just put him down and walk away like a normal person, so I usually find myself fighting back tears of desperation and frustration. I've had my share of crying episodes while my kid sits on my lap and stares at me with curiosity. It's magical, let me tell you. But most of the time in these moments where I'm feeling like I'm hanging on by a thread and I'm sobbing in front of my child, that little jerk will inevitably do something to make me laugh, and then I remember why I decided to give up my life and my freedom and my sleep.

A few months ago, I actually did get pregnant again, only to miscarry immediately, aka chemical pregnancy. Of course I was sad and disappointed, but I figured it was super early and honestly if I hadn't been tracking a possible pregnancy so closely with test strips and an app on my phone, I wouldn't have even known I was pregnant. So if a miscarriage was inevitable, it's probably a good thing that it happened when it did. And to that point, I am actually pregnant right now, but I'm also spotting off and on and have been for several days, so the outlook isn't good. In my heart of hearts, I'm almost positive I'm going through another chemical pregnancy. That would bring my total miscarriage count up to four, which feels rather shitty, to be honest.

To the point I made above of still feeling motivated to try even after having multiple losses, I will concede that each loss I have does indeed chip away at my defenses, and I do believe it will eventually weaken me to the point where I will need to make a conscious decision to stop trying to get pregnant. Time seems to stop when you're trying to get pregnant, at least for me. I wake up thinking about it, I float through my day not focusing on work because I'm thinking about it, I probably don't put myself 100% out there for my family because I'm preoccupied with it, and I go to bed thinking about what test strip I'm going to pee on the next morning. It's mentally and emotionally exhausting, and it's starting to wear on me. I know I'm not doing my best as a wife because experiencing miscarriage does something my brain; I think it makes me more guarded and standoffish for whatever reason.

After the chemical pregnancy I had a few months ago, I was able to sort of let the quest go and I didn't chart anything for days at a time and I didn't open my fertility app much, mostly because I was so sick of being consumed with all of it. I hope I can get back to that state of mind, because I feel like I'm in this kind of limbo, and it sucks ass. Adulting is fucking bullshit.

The struggle is so fucking real, man.

Is it possible to have post-partum depression 21 months after giving birth? Because things in my head haven't been all that great lately. It's probably not PPD; it's probably just the fact that parenthood is HARD AS FUCK. The balancing act of wearing multiple hats--mom, wife, friend, daughter, employee--is taking its toll. I feel like I'm in a place right now where real issues are possibly being mistaken for just the natural rut that most people my age may find themselves in on any average day. Nothing prepared me for motherhood. And while I'm so in love with my kiddo and wouldn't trade him for the world, the small (and large) adjustments I've had to make in my life have added up to a mountain that I have trouble climbing sometimes.

Sometimes I have to stop and remind myself that no matter how rosy those pics of people and their families on IG and Facebook appear, they, too, have probably felt the same way I feel now. I am certainly guilty of comparing myself to others based on their life reports from their social media. I know that people out there are so much better equipped to handle stress and anxiety than I am, and I'm learning to accept my weaknesses as a mother, wife and human.

I'm constantly asking myself "am I doing enough?" Am I remembering to touch base with my friends? Did I remember to text a dear friend to see how she's coping with a stressful life event? Am I checking in with my pregnant friend/family member enough and being as supportive to them as they were to me when I was pregnant? Am I giving enough attention to my marriage? How many times this week did I unnecessarily snap at my husband? Did I thank him for making dinner last night? Is my son spending enough time with his grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins? Is he getting enough quality experiences each day? Is his diet balanced? Am I giving the pets enough attention? Am I letting my life interfere with my job? (other than being late to work every single day)

Being a mom, a wife--a human--is difficult and exhausting, and the struggle is, indeed, real. But man, I'm so fucking lucky for everything I have. Every day I get to spend with people I love is such a privilege, and this is what I have to remind myself of, even when I'm having the hardest of days. Things can always be worse. Case in point: a co-worker recently lost her son, her firstborn. He was older; early 40s. Not that that matters; the pain and anguish to go through losing a child has no age limit. So each day I get to hold my boy, kiss my husband, have a drink with dear friends makes the stress and anxiety just a little easier. I do hope to seek professional therapy in the near future. My personality and impulsivity don't always make for the best of coping skills. I'd like to learn how to channel some of this stress into a positive outcome, and I feel like I'll need more help figuring that out.