Don't blink

In the latest edition of mom digest, here's a newsflash: don't stress too much over some developmental milestones, because they will eventually arrive. (Thank you, Capt Obvious!)

A huge stressor for moms, at least for this one, is all the milestones and firsts that your baby is supposed to have in their first year or two of life. The parenting apps and blogs I read when my bug was born are chock full of information on both physical and cognitive development for babies in all months of life. Naturally, this means that if my baby wasn't doing what the app or blog said he should be doing at x months old, I would get worried. I would start ruminating over the possibility of a problem with him. Even if it felt silly to get all worked up over, I would still worry under the surface. For example, my baby didn't start pulling himself up until he was about 10 or 11 months; there's a kid in his class who is pulling himself up at 8 months. Another example: my baby didn't cut his teeth for at least 4 or 5 months after I started having posts about cutting teeth show up on my daily parenting app alerts. It seemed like my kid took his sweet time until he finally started sleeping through the night. Incidentally, I stopped sleeping through the night and wake up several times to check on him. Is that irony or insanity?

In this case, these are not life or death situations, just minor anxieties. But they feel huge at the time. Every little thing that's not textbook feels like a potential disaster, and all us moms want is for our kids to be healthy and normal in their development. So here's my life lesson takeaway so far that seems like common sense but still needs to be repeated for the anxious, paranoid moms like me: every kid is different. Every kid moves at their own pace. Pending any serious cognitive, behavioral or developmental delays, your kid is fine. He will cut those teeth when his gums are good and ready. He will crawl when he's feels like it. He will say "mama" when he's feeling sad and needy. He will say "dada" every other second of every day. He will walk when he feels confident enough to try. He will take a flying leap out of a bouncy chair when he sees the other kid in his class do it. He will start sleeping through the night when his rhythms regulate. He will get to whatever stage/level he's supposed to be at when he gets to it. 

It's challenging all the time for me to not compare my baby to others, in terms of his abilities and his development. It's a mindset I don't enjoy, and every time I'm able to step back and tell myself that it's useless to compare him to others, I do feel a little more convinced of how silly it is to do this. But in the meantime, I'll just keep writing down his milestones in his baby book and beam with pride and joy at the plethora of things my baby is learning to do every day. Seriously, don't blink. Progress and milestones happen in an instant.  

Fat mom

Any "The Office" fans out there remember the episode where Pam is pregnant for the second time and she's really hormonal and emotional and she has that mini meltdown where she's wailing about how she used to be pretty and skinny but "now I'm just a fat mom!" Yeah. That's me. I am such a fat mom right now.

I was warned by a friend who knows from experience: once you stop breastfeeding, the weight gain hits you like a fucking bullet right between the eyes....or in my case, the tummy. Yeah, as if the c-section scar didn't accentuate my mom gut enough, the absence of breastfeeding has now given me a full blown spare tire around my midsection. It's my own fault. I didn't listen. I was cocky and riding the high of being back to my pre-pregnancy weight so fast after giving birth (again, thank you, breastfeeding). I let myself fall under the spell of this delusion that I could eat whatever I wanted with no consequences because I had birthed a human and now I hardly had time to eat myself, and surely someone who is constantly feeling starved like I am isn't gaining a bunch of weight, right? WRONG. SO. WRONG. 

Ladies, take heed! If you're an old crone like me, and you're in a place in your life where it's more difficult to lose weight, exercise (because of all the sciatica) or just have healthy habits in general (because you're exhausted and love wine too much), start formulating your plan of action now, because once you stop producing that liquid gold for your baby, your ass will get fat. Quickly. It will sneak up on you and punch you in the face when you're distracted by wine or daycare or your baby's first cold or whatever the fuck else seems more important at the time than your vanity. 

"Back to life, back to reality..."

I'm at the end of my part-time work status, about to return to full-time and I have few thoughts to share:

-Part-time is WHERE IT'S AT. It doesn't get much better than this, especially if you're like me in that you need some time away from your kids and your house, but not too much time. It makes the week go by quicker and you have days built into your week where you can get daytime errands done, such as taking the dog to the vet or getting grocery shopping done while the sun is still out. 

-While I'm not looking forward to working a full 40-hour week, I am looking forward to having the full-time paycheck again. The pay cut I took was a little rough, especially since babies need about $45,000 worth of food/clothes/stuff a week. I admit I am a bit insecure about my meager paycheck anyway, and to have that cut in half was a real ball buster. I won't exactly be rolling in it, but I'll at least get back to where I originally was in terms of how much anxiety I experience in the days leading up to pay day. 

-Now that my son is in daycare, the alone time I can get on those two days a week is divine. I love my son, I love my husband, I love my pets. But I love my alone time. A lot. This isn't a newsflash for anyone with kids, but ever since my son was born, my time alone to do whatever I want has almost ceased to exist. If I don't have a baby in my arms, I'm holding his laundry basket. Or I'm getting his dinner ready. Or I'm bathing him. Or I'm rocking him to sleep. Or I'm wiping his nose. Or I'm cleaning his high chair. Or I'm picking up his toys. Or I'm making dinner for the adults. Or I'm doing my own laundry. Or I'm at the store buying more food. Or I'm emptying diaper pails. Or I'm taking him to the doctor. I think you get it...your time no longer belongs to you. It belongs to everyone and everything else. Would I change it? Nope. Well, maybe I'd hire an au pair if I could afford it. But it was a shell shock for me to learn and experience just how much brain power, energy, effort and doing for everyone but myself it would take with a baby. So to have any alone time to do anything, household obligations included, is a big win.

-Can I tell you a sick, twisted secret? Even though I'm a huge fan of alone time, I still miss my baby when he's at daycare. Probably a lot more than I should. But I can't help it. Everyone told me that this time goes by so fast, and he's only little and young once, and I should enjoy every moment. I'm determined to do just that.

-As a return to full time looms in front of me, I am exhausted just thinking about it. I no longer have those two "buffer" days during the week where I can catch up on sleep if I really need to. The thought of that makes me want to crawl into a hole and sleep for the next 17 years.

Moral of the story: if you're a new mom and you can pull off working part time, DO IT. 

Fuuuuuuuuuuuck.

UPDATE:

Well, we survived our first week of daycare. I ain't gonna lie...it was rough. There were lots of tears and sobbing and a lot of desperate clinging, not to mention how hard it was on the baby.

I know it's going to take time for my boy to get used to new people and a new place. I know he just needs time to build his confidence and sense of security around strangers, without mom there to cling onto. I know he will get more and more comfortable being cared for by his teachers. I know that daycare will benefit future him when it's time to adapt or adjust to a new situation, and he has the mental and emotional tools to do so successfully. I know that wet cough and runny nose is helping to build his immune system. I know a little solo time to whine and not get immediate attention is going to help him become more independent and self-sufficient in the long run. I know it will get easier on both of us. I know all this. But knowing and feeling are two different things, and I know that I feel worry, guilt, sadness and anxiety when I drop him off. This change is as much a transition for me as it is for him. He may be the one attending daycare, but mom is also experiencing the stress of a new situation, and it is hard.
 


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Tension. Fear. Stress. Worry. Anxiety. Sadness. Panic. Paranoia.

No, these aren't buzzwords for the new "Saw" movie. This is just a glimpse of what's happening inside my head right now. Why? Because it's the kid's first day of daycare is tomorrow, and I am a fucking race car in the red. 

File this shit under "pre-baby smugness." Before I had my baby, I never would've imagined the spectre of daycare would cause me this much anxiety. I just assumed daycare was one of those rites of passage that most kids (and parents) go through and it's not a big deal because millions of kids go to daycare every day and it's basically like school but with poopy diapers and naps, right? Well, yes. But holy Jesus and Buddha's mom, I am fucking FREAKING OUT over it. The idea of someone else other than myself or an immediate family member watching my kid for 8+ hours a day, several days a week?? I think my head just exploded twice.

Look, I know daycare is no biggie in the grand scheme of the universe. But you have to understand something: I am a control freak to the max. And I'm a germaphobe. And I'm OCD. And did I mention what a control freak I am?? Yes, I want my baby to be well-adjusted to a myriad of environments and people, but here's the thing: I am terrified and paranoid about other people. There are so many fucked up individuals on this planet that don't think anything about putting their shoes sole-side-down on someone's countertop, and that is a fucking problem for me. Not to mention your average psycho caregivers who think it's ok to let a kid sit in a poopy diaper for more than 55 seconds! Crazies, right?? 

This is tough test of parenthood, right here. I had a small meltdown last night in which I asserted that I was not sending my kid to daycare, period, and then I proceeded to sob with snot and tears running down my face while blubbering about how my baby is going to think I left him with strangers and we'll both be traumatized over it. My poor husband; he's going to have to take care of two crying people tomorrow. Super fun for him!  

I had a pep talk with the kiddo in the car tonight about daycare, and even though he can't understand me, I feel like we had a moment or two of mutual understanding and clarity about the whole situation. And if not, there's a bar about 100 yards away from daycare...Mommy will go self-medicate and numb the pain while the kid does the heavy lifting. 

Fuck. Wish me luck!  

1 year; 12 months; 52 weeks; 365 days; 8760 hours

That's how old my son is today. An entire year old. How is that even fucking possible? You know when all those people tell you to enjoy your babies because in the blink of an eye they'll be grown? 100% accurate. Completely true. Listen to those people, because they know.

Obviously, I didn't always feel this way. In the first couple of months after he was born, I felt like time had practically stopped for me. I was trapped in this vortex of caring for a newborn and never leaving my house because I was healing and it was the dead of winter. And pretty much all regular interaction with adults ceased (I don't count visits from family or friends because let's face it: they came for the baby). I felt like a trapped animal. My new normal was an isolating one, one that I was not digging much at all. I actually found myself missing work. I KNOW, RIGHT?

Fast forward to my baby's third month of life. Maternity leave was coming to an end. That's when things moved into the fast lane. Faced with an inevitable return to work, I was fucking terrified at the concept of my baby starting daycare. I was not ready at all. You know that looming dread you feel on Sunday afternoon and how it only increases as the day goes on because you know you have to get back to the grind on Monday? Multiply that by 234,038 times and you'll understand how it felt to face the prospect of leaving my defenseless, tiny baby in the care of strangers. Panic set in big time. How did he get to three months old so fast...he just came out of my uterus for fucks sake! What if he gets hurt at daycare? What if the staff there aren't loving enough? What if he forgets who I am? Oh Jesus, oh Buddha, I can't! 

Fortunately, I have a great boss who was willing to let me switch to part-time for a little while and a wonderful mother-in-law who was willing to watch the baby for the three days a week I went to work. I really couldn't have asked for a better scenario to play out (other than winning the lottery and not having to work at all). I asked for the ability to stay part-time until the baby was at least a year old; that way, he would be old enough to be eligible for part-time daycare. My angel-from-heaven boss agreed this was fine, and my saint of a mother-in-law was great with continuing to watch him three days a week until then. I am one lucky biatch. As is my kid. He gets my neurotic, germaphobic, obsessive, meticulous, loving touch four days a week and a grandma who spoils him rotten on the other three days.  

(I'll say this: I could get real used to a three day work week. Heaven.  But part-time paycheck? Not pretty at all.) 

And so we've reached that grand milestone: my baby is one year old today. I carried him to term, and I kept him alive for 365 days. I survived the shell shock of a newborn, the recovery from a c-section, profound sleep deprivation, breastfeeding and pumping and countless instances of being puked and peed on. I didn't drop him once. I successfully changed a few blowout diapers in public. We got through multiple lunch and dinner outings with no major meltdowns. I didn't kill my husband. My husband didn't kill me. My hair eventually stopped falling out as much. I'm always cold now. I discovered the joys of wearing nursing bras to bed. And I got to experience firsthand the extreme generosity and kindness that others show you when you pop out a kid, and it has made me want to be a better human being and to pay that kindness forward to others. 

I'm thrilled to report that my baby did not forget me when I went back to work. He adjusted well to his weekly schedule. He went on his first boat ride and wore his first life jacket. He loves Elmo and Super Why and BabyTV. He went to the strawberry festival on Monument Circle. He's only had two instances of having a minor cold all year, and one of them seemed more related to teething than an actual illness. Speaking of teething, he's got three bottom teeth and has almost cut his top two. His favorite blanket is his blue fuzzy one. His crawling game is strong, and spring training for walking is in full swing. He can say "mama" and "dada" and "dog," and he can give high fives and will sometimes wave hello and goodbye. He went to Zoo Boo and his first haunted house. He sat on Santa's lap for at least five minutes without screaming and rode in a train. He met a Storm Trooper at the state museum. He celebrated all his first major holidays and spent them with family and friends who adore him. He finally won Chevy and Walter over by throwing food on the floor during mealtimes. He loves carbs as much as I do. He's really into Ritz crackers. He had his first birthday cake and went straight for the icing. Even though the world is crazy, he is surrounded by love. He is the luckiest boy ever to have so many people in his life who love him. 

I rocked him to sleep tonight, just as I normally do. Sometimes it takes an annoying amount of time for him to settle down and fall asleep, especially here lately. It doesn't help matters that I'm more than likely exhausted and probably haven't eaten dinner yet. Most nights, I would sell my kidney if it meant he would just go the fuck to sleep. Tonight, I didn't mind the time it took for him to fall asleep; it was just under an hour. In fact, I was tempted to spend even more time rocking him and kissing his head and listening to him breathe. Maybe it was the fact that I managed to eat dinner while he ate, so I wasn't hangry. Maybe it was the fact that I got a few things done after work since I didn't have to pick him up today, and I was energized by that. Or maybe it's because tonight my boy went to bed still a baby, but he will wake up a one year old, and I needed to enjoy my baby one more night. 

I'm telling you...blink of an eye.  

The circle of life

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

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

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

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

Or, as equally disturbing:

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

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

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

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

I'm not ready

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm not ready.