Happy Birthday to Me (and America)

I have the best birthday on the calendar – July 4th. Think about it. It’s a holiday, so (as long as you’re in America) you are guaranteed to be off work, no matter what day it falls on. BUT it’s not a gift giving holiday, so you never get gypped on gifts. Everyone loves to party on the fourth, everyone loves to barbeque on the fourth and THERE ARE FIREWORKS.

Admit it – it’s awesome.

What’s not so awesome is this slow creep towards 30. Yesterday was my 28^th birthday. Not a milestone year, but inching up there. Nevertheless, this birthday was special, because I got to share it with Larkin. Oh, he was “there” last year. I was on bed rest and unable to attend the official fireworks show, but I hefted myself out to the backyard to watch the neighbor’s illegal show. Larkin tossed and turned in my belly, kicking me solidly every time a firework went off.

I remember vividly slapping at mosquitoes and watching my stomach roll, and marinating in the hopes of the forthcoming year. Except for the joy of the baby, though, all the hopes I had for my 27^th year were pretty well dashed.

Excepting the birth of Larkin, 27 was not a happy year. It was fraught with financial hardships, professional setbacks (for both Jonathan and I), and rocky relationships. It was a rather boring rollercoaster ride – the highest peak of my life, surrounded by below-sea level nothingness. Nothing truly DRAMATICALLY bad happened (no family or friends passed away unexpectedly, no one became gravely ill, our son has born fit and healthy), but it was a year that I’m rather happy to see in the rear view.

To ring in my new year, we tromped in to town for the local fireworks show. It was not a well thought out plan. Because of the severe droughts we’ve had in Texas this year, most of the local firework shows were banned. So EVERYONE in the area was coming in to the same location. We had to park at one place and be shuttled in to the park. There, thousands and thousands of people had been celebrating for most of the day. It was a mad house.

We quickly backed out of the park after Larkin almost got his head knocked off by a (allegedly) drunk moron within seconds of us walking in. Instead, we parked ourselves in a grassy area outside of the park where a few other families had gathered to watch the show.

Shortly after we got situated, the first fireworks went off. Larkin’s eyes opened hugely and his mouth fell open as he watched the colorful explosions. He looked at me with an “ARE YOU SEEING THIS?!?” expression, then swiveled his head back to the show. He stared at the entire fifteen minute show with absolute awestruck wonder. When the grand finale started exploding across the sky, I found it impossible to look at anything but the huge smile on his face.

The trip home wasn’t pleasant (ever seen humans being herded?), but it was worth every minute of frustration to see that joyous expression on my baby’s face as he discovered something amazing and new. So, in other words, it was a very fitting ending to the year.

Happy Fourth of July, baby. Happy birthday, me.  

I think this year will be our year!

Gluten free red velvet cupcake... yum!

What Babies Dream

I was settling in with my crochet, enjoying the peace while Larkin slept solidly. All of the sudden, from the bedroom, he let out a frightened yelp. I threw down my crochet, and darted into the room. In the dim light, I could see him tossing a bit and whimpering but realized that he was still asleep. I yanked the barricading pillows out of the way with one hand, while reaching with the other to feel his cheek for fever. His head was cool, but he was obviously having a bad dream.

I laid down in bed beside him, and prepared to offer a nursing – his usual nighttime request. Before I could position myself, he turned to me. There, in the golden glow of the nightlight, he curled in tight beside me. He rolled until we were belly to belly, and rested his head on my chest. I wrapped my arm around him, and he reached out his small, soft, dry, warm hand and held on tight to my hand. I stroked the tiny dimples on his knuckles and he squeezed my fingers.

I leaned in and kissed his forehead, then buried my nose in his hair. The fine, puffy,  dandelion fluff of his hair tickled my nose. The sharp smell of his lemon organic shampoo mixed with the beachy scent of his sunscreen that never totally comes off in the bath, but it was all pushed aside for the decidedly little boy/baby head smell that is a perfume all his own.

I kissed his little head over and over, until the whimpers stopped and his little body relaxed. I rested my cheek on his head to double check for fever, and considered drifting off to sleep in the sweetness of the cuddles. Then he stiffened and cried out again, stopping short only when he reached out and realized he was still in my arms. My heart broke at the sadness of his fear and trembled with the power of our connection that just my presence was enough to offer such peace.

We laid like that for several minutes as he settled back into a peaceful sleep. I held him tight and wondered what he could possibly be seeing in his dreams to cause such discomfort. (Seriously though, what does such a precious child in such a sheltered environment have nightmares about? Weaning, maybe?) Eventually, he rolled away from me, and settled into his usual starfish position, sprawled across as much of our bed as he can possibly occupy. I slid out of bed, and came back out here to the living room – but I left my heart back in the bedroom, in Larkin’s safekeeping… just where it’s been since the first time he laid his head on my chest.

Bed Rest: An Anniversary of a Bad Day

One year ago yesterday, I went on bed rest. It’s so strange because it seems like that was ten years ago. I don’t know why the date is so firmly planted in my mind, I’m horrible about anniversaries. But it was easily one of the worst days of my life. I was watching the clock, timing contractions that were only a few minutes apart, but barely painful – because my 20 week old baby wasn’t big enough to cause me much pain. He also would not have been big enough to survive.

Monitors and medicines. Tears and prayers. Fear and uncertainty.

We spent some time in the hospital being monitored, then sent home with bed rest instructions and a prescription to help control the contractions. In all honesty, there was nothing much they could do. I called work, and checked out indefinitely. I settled in to our bed, and stayed there for most of the next seventeen weeks.

When I started my bed rest, I couldn’t yet feel the baby moving. Within a few weeks, I was able to lay back and watch my belly jump from the pressure of tiny kicks. Every day, I played music to the baby. I would chat with him, tell him how much I loved him.

I felt so guilty throughout those months. I hated my body for not adequately protecting my baby, for not effectively performing its primary purpose. But as the weeks went on, and we moved from impossibility to viability and then to safety – I made my peace.

I have a hard time looking back on my pregnancy. The bleeding in the beginning that caused such a scare. The elevated test results that had us hearing words like “option to terminate” and “possibility to abort”. The contractions as my body tried to bring Larkin into this world too soon. The stressful and unpleasant birth ending in an emergency surgery.

So instead, I focus on those days when I would lay in bed and whisper to my unborn baby. When I would tell him of all the fun things we would do, if he would just be patient. When I would pray out loud so that both he and God could hear of my love and pleas for protection. When I would listen to the rain and dream of the day I would watch my son splash in puddles and chase frogs. When I would look out at the sunshine and would miss the world – but know that my work was being done right where I was.

What a year it’s been! 365 days since my last day behind an office computer. 365 of growing - then raising - my little monster. Sometimes I miss the quiet of those days. I don’t get much downtime anymore. But what a blessing that we got those months to get to know each other before he even arrived!

The Worst Mother Ever

Sometimes, I feel like the worst mom ever. Cerebrally, I know I’m not. I know I can’t even imagine the worst “moms” out there, much less compare myself to them. So I guess it would be more apt to say, I feel like such an inept mom.

I feel inept when my son wakes up two hours after he’s gone to bed “for the night” and proceeds to play happily until midnight.

I know that the child is the spawn of the two worst night owls on Earth, but surely I should have some control over his schedule, right? There must be some sign I’m missing, or I must be screwing up the sleep process in some way, right?!? Should I move his dinner earlier, or maybe later? Or maybe his bath time? Maybe I’m not tucking him in right, or he should be in his crib (if he’s in our bed) or in our bed (if he’s in his crib), or maybe I’m not reading the right books or saying the right prayer or doing the right routine (AND WHAT ALMOST EIGHT MONTH OLD CARES ABOUT BEDTIME ROUTINES ANYWAY?).

I feel inept when he can’t let me out of his sight for three seconds without total meltdown.

Some people may say that just shows what a bond we have and blah blah blah. It feels like I’m failing in some way, failing to make him independent or trusting to others or SOMETHING. Plus, I really miss peeing with the door closed without it making someone cry.

I feel inept every time he gets sick.

This is my favorite. I get so distraught every time he gets the sniffles because ISN’T BREATMILK SUPPOSED TO BE MADE OF MAGICAL IMMUNITY PROPERTIES THAT ARE NINJAS TO ALL STRAY GERMS?!? WHY ARE MY NINJAS SO LAZY?!? WHO HAS EVER HEARD OF LAZY NINJAS???  So then I have to berate my lazy ninjas, and stew in the fact that if I ate healthier or took my prenatal vitamins or drank the water from a magical waterfall frequented by unicorns then MY SON WOULDN’T HAVE A COLD.

And the worst, the absolute WORST is how utterly inept I feel when I JUST NEED A BREAK.

It seems simple, right? A mama’s boy with a midnight bed time – what mom WOULDN’T need a break? But I have friends who are unable to have children at all, and a friend who is watching his baby waste away from cancer, and friends who never saw their children alive at all. It feels wicked to feel so tired and worn so thin. I feel like such a pitiful whiner when I have such a beautiful, healthy baby boy who loves me so much that he doesn’t want to be apart from me and who thinks his daddy and I are so much fun that he doesn’t want to sleep through the “party”.

So, really, I guess the truth is that I feel like every other mother on the planet. Sigh… maybe he’ll sleep tonight, and maybe I’ll sleep tonight, and surely things will look better tomorrow.

And if not? Then that magical waterfall better serve margaritas also.

The Reality of Motherhood - The Sequel

 I know this is my second poop related post in a row. I promise to return to regularly scheduled programming tomorrow.

***

Jonathan says “Blog it. Be real. Blog about this stuff, the real stuff.”

“You just want to pull it out of the archives and force me to remember it all when I start saying I want another baby.”

“Yes, that is correct. AND IT WILL WORK.”

***

 Larkin is currently cutting *three* teeth. Yes, I notice yesterday afternoon that his top canines are pushing their way through, and that bottom middle one is still working its way out. So our last few weeks have looked as such:

Baby begins teething, cuts first tooth.

He gets a virus that knocks him out with a red, raw, sore throat.

Begins the SLOW process of cutting his second bottom tooth.

THIS.

Baby gets a full-on cold (with tons of congestion, a yucky cough and lots of snot to be sucked up).

I get baby’s cold.

Two more teeth (top canines – I HAVE A VAMPIRE BABY!) begin making their way out.

Please tell me it has been 5,638 days since Easter because it really, truly feels like it’s been that long. Since Easter, Larkin has refused almost all solids (which means he’s nursing almost non-stop), is not sleeping well (or at all, unless I’m next to him), and doesn’t want anything to do with anyone that isn’t me.

So, we’re getting lots of bonding time WHETHER I WANT TO OR NOT which is wonderful, of course.

But yesterday, it was an absolutely beautiful Saturday, and I had a pressing phone call to make (and YES. A sorority sister to whom I haven’t spoken to in over a month IS a pressing phone call). So I plopped Larkin in his jumperoo, turned on some Wonder Pets, and saluted Jonathan (who was in the room with the baby, but working).

I went out to the backyard, and enjoyed the sunshine while catching up with Amber. After awhile, I heard happy jumping noises turn into grumpy ones, so I went back in to get him. I noticed that his diaper was smelling ripe, so I shouldered the phone and asked his daddy to change him. Being the good man he is, he took Larkin and headed for the changing table while I continued my conversation.

A few seconds later, Jonathan shouts that he needs my help. He sounds frantic, so I run into the room. I scope the situation – possibly the most major poop we’ve encountered in the entirety of our son’s life – and tell Amber I will have to call her back. Jonathan does a one-handed baby hogtie in futile attempts to keep a soiled bum off the changing pad and tiny hands out of the mess while I begin cleaning up the situation.

All the sudden, Larkin lets out a furious scream. For a split second, we dismiss it as the usual temper tantrum he has started to throw during every diaper change. Then we realize that in our efforts, the changing pad had slipped, knocking his tiny noggin into the wall of the changing table. We adjust, apologize, and continue cleaning.

Once he ws basically clean, I told Jonathan to just strip him, and I’d just give him a bath. So he stands him on the bed to remove his onesie while I prepare the tub. I hear Jonathan sigh – Larkin is peeing all over the bed.

Jonathan gathers up the diapers, bedding, changing pad, onesie, and any other casualties of the Great Diaper Disaster of 2011 and starts a load of laundry while I drop Larkin in his ducky tub. He thinks it’s pretty funny to get a bath in the middle of the day. He lays back, reclined against the side of the tub – and pees (again) right into his face. This is met with righteous indignation, and dirty looks at me (as if I’ve caused it!).

So I grab the J&J baby wash, and suds the kid up as fast as possible. I go to wipe the soap off his face, and he throws himself backwards, hitting his head on the side of the tub (not hard enough to really hurt, just hard enough to scare himself). While he’s still inhaling the scream, I snatch him out of the tub, and haul his dripping, furious self out of the bathroom.

I pat him dry with his towel, kiss away his tears, and get him diapered and dressed. And then?

We nap.

Sick Baby (And Other Miseries)

1 AM, and his fever was spiking. His little head was burning hot. I fumbled in the dark room to switch on a low lamp and find the thermometer. Usually he fights me, but this time he just moaned as I stuck the sensor in his ear. 100.5°. I kissed his forehead, and offered him a nursing. He accepted gratefully and drifted back to a restless sleep.

3 AM. I awoke to a low moan. I glanced at his baby face, there next to me in bed, illuminated by the still-burning lamp light. His cheeks were flushed and his forehead was as furrowed as his smooth skin would allow. His dandelion hair was pressed down to his head in rivulets of sweat. He had shoved off his blanket and tossed his stuffed monkey. I reached again for the thermometer. 102°.

I debated what to do. The overprotective mama in me wanted to head to the ER. But a rational voice told me to wait, just wait. So I gave him a dose of Motrin, and offered another nursing. He had trouble finding me, then just laid his forehead against my chest and rested. I felt a small tear roll from his cheek onto my skin. My heart broke.

15 minutes, I promised myself. I will wait 15 minutes. Then I will check his temperature again. He continued to moan in his sleep. He started babbling quietly, talking to some dream figure. I dampened a wash cloth and brushed it over his forehead, down the crown of his head; the wetness made his baby fine hair wave over his ears as it dried.

I checked his fever again. 101.7°. Dropping. I breathed a sigh of relief against his cheek. He pushed me away. I scooted over to offer him more room and he clutched for me, pulling himself back close to me. I laid there awake for hours, watching as the flush faded and left his cheek, waiting until his restless sleep stilled.

We visited the pediatrician the next morning. He remarked on Larkin's red and swollen throat,  and received the  unsatisfactory diagnosis of "a virus of some kind". Since then, his fever has ridden an unhappy rollercoaster. He won’t sleep much, won’t eat his solids. He's fussy and grumpy. Won’t let me out of his sight. So we just lay together, resting, cuddling, nursing. He’ll sleep for awhile, and then slit open his eyes. His baby blues seek me out, red-rimmed, and verify that I’m close. Once he sees me, he drifts back off.

It’s his first fever, and I think it’s as hard on me as it is him.

If You Give a Mommy a Glass of Wine...

If you give a mommy a glass of wine, she’s going to remember how much she misses date nights.

She will be inspired the next day, so when the baby goes down for a nap, she’ll dust off her makeup kit and get all dolled up.

Once she sees how pretty she looks with her face made up, she’ll break out her favorite little black dress.

When she puts on the dress, she’ll realize that it didn’t use to be quite *so* little. So she’ll decide it’s time to go on a diet.

She’ll sweep all the cookies and sweets out of the cabinet, but one box will clatter to the floor. The noise will wake the baby.

When she goes to get the baby, he won’t recognize her with all that makeup on and will start screaming.

She will frantically try to nurse him to prove she’s his mommy. He will decide he doesn’t really care who she is, as long as she’s offering a snack.

While he is nursing from one side, the other side will start to leak. Now her little black dress is a mess. She will dig out a pair of yoga pants, and realize they didn’t have a babysitter and that a teething baby doesn’t make a good third wheel.

So she will decide to get take out.

As she goes into the kitchen to find the menus for their favorite restaurants, she’ll wonder why there are cookies all over the cabinet. She will eat a handful while she browses the menus.

Upon seeing the menus, she will reminisce about their last date night, and will settle on sushi.

She will change the baby’s diaper, and will realize that she needs to do a load of laundry. She will set the baby down and gather up the dirty clothes. She will want to wash the nursing bra she is wearing. All the other nursing bras will be dirty, so she will grimace and put on a regular bra. She will assume that since the baby just ate, he will not want to nurse again so soon and the bra will be fine.

The baby will decide he wants to nurse.

Once the baby is fed, and the laundry is started, she will load up the car and begin to drive into town for sushi takeout. Before she leaves the neighborhood, the baby will be crying hysterically. She’ll decide that fancy sushi is overrated, and grocery store sushi will suffice.

When she gets to the grocery store, she will remember that the cats need litter.

When she gets to the pet aisle, she will be reminded that the garbage can needs bags, the bathroom needs toilet paper, the husband needs shaving cream, and the baby needs a new teething ring.

After she throws all of those things in her cart, she will decide she might as well buy food for the next week.

As she goes to stand in line, the baby will dirty his diaper horrendously. She will realize she doesn’t have a single diaper in her giant diaper bag.

She will run back to the baby aisle to add a small pack of diapers to her cart. The line will have tripled in size when she returns.

The baby will start screaming.

Baby butt cleaned and groceries in the trunk, she will head home. Traffic will snarl, and a pickup will honk aggressively.

She will want to rear end said pickup.

When she finally arrives home, she will juggle the baby and the groceries, uncertain whether her head or the baby is screaming louder.

She will realize she forgot the sushi.

She will sit on the floor and cry, and her heavily made up eyes will stream rivers of mascara.

The baby will think this is funny and will head butt her and jam a finger up her nose.

Her husband will stare at her and ask why she bothered, since they have perfectly good leftovers in the fridge, and the sushi probably isn’t on her diet anyway.

She will want a plate served right there on the floor.

And then, because he is a good husband, he will ask if she would like….

a glass of wine.

Family Legacy

It's been a crazy week. My little monster has been keeping me in knots (see my last post). Besides his new crazy activity level, his sleep schedule that I so proudly bragged on (rookie mistake!) has been left in the dust. He still goes down like an angel at 7 pm - but then wakes up refreshed by 8:30 pm. Sigh. So that and these lovely Houston allergies have left me pretty wiped out.

But I'm so excited about the coming weekend. Despite how religious my family is, I've never in my life been to a Easter Sunday church service. Every year, my maternal family has a massive reunion in Anson (outside of Abilene). Family comes in from all over most of the southern US and we get caught up while some of the guys grill steaks and burgers for everyone. We have a big Easter egg hunt and the kids do battle to get the choicest eggs.

So we're getting all set for our four day weekend. We've got Larkin's Easter outfit ready, I put together his Easter basket today, and we're starting to get packed. Now, the logistics of surviving the road trip from Houston to Anson with a 6 month old who hates the car... well, I'm still bracing myself for that.

His Easter basket - how cute is that? No candy this year (sorry, buddy!) but he got some summer clothes, bubbles, a little tiger toy and a stuffed monkey that makes him giggle every time he sees it.

His new summer clothes!

I'm so excited to go this year because most of my extended family still haven't met Larkin yet. I can't wait to show him off and introduce him to his amazing family. My precious cousin had a little boy just two weeks after Larkin was born, and I can't wait for them (and the multitude of other little kiddos) to grow up together running around like we did.

This year will be hard because it will be the first reunion since my great uncle JD passed on. Since my dad's father passed away when I was about Larkin's age, JD was like a grandfather to me. He was an amazing man and a true hero - both military and just your average, everyday hero. I love and miss him daily, and it'll be hard not to be able to run into his strong arms. He passed away just a short time before Larkin was born, which broke my heart. I knew he wasn't doing well, but I had prayed that he would last until Easter so he could meet the little boy I was carrying.

I'm excited to attend the reunion for the first time as a parent. I see our family in such a different light now.  I am inspired by the memories of the family that has passed on, especially my great grandparents who started the entire clan that will be meeting together this weekend. When I was younger, I was always looking for my legacy. Something that I was good at, something that I could accomplish, something that people would see long after I was gone and remember me. After losing two friends way before their time, I heightened my efforts. I wondered if it would be my writing, my photography? What would make people remember me?

Now I realize how far off I was.

Larkin will never get to meet my great grandparents. He will never play with my Pops, be swung around by JD, or bounce on my granddad's knee. Jonathan's grandfather will never make him laugh. There are so many people that he'll never get to know. He will hear countless stories about these titans that went before him. He will know their names and their deeds. But most likely, his children will not know the details of their lives. They probably will not recognize the names Madie, Toad, and Bruce. Their children will know even less.

But they will know their legacy. They will know the spirit of their ancestors every time Larkin bows his head to pray over them. They will know the seeds that their family has sown so diligently and upon such fertile soil. When they see a healthy marriage, they will see the influence of my great grandparents, who loved so fiercely for so long. When they see the women of their family serving and smiling and the men leading and standing strong - they will know.

I realize now that the point of a legacy isn't to be remembered by name. What you leave behind should be more than a name. Books wither, letters crumble, paintings flake, photos fade. Names are forgotten. The spirit of Christ, the dedication of love and the strength of family - that is what lasts forever.

The Beginning of the End

Tonight, we served Larkin his first bit of solids. He was very excited (bananas were a huge hit!) and did beautifully (not even any mess!). I will post photos and a very cute video tomorrow. But tonight, I need to work out my own mixed feelings about this milestone.

At his four month check up, his pediatrician told us to wait until Larkin was as close to six months as possible before introducing solids. At about the same time as that check up, Larkin started getting very interested in the food on our plate. As he got closer to five months, he began trying to mooch off our plates at dinnertime and mimicking us as we opened our mouths and chewed. Then, last Saturday morning, he was sitting on my lap while I was eating a kolache. After each bite, Larkin would lean in and give me a big kiss. At first I thought he was just being a sweetheart, but then I realized he was trying to taste that delicious breakfast treat!

So, in other words, he has been more than ready to start solids. Turns out, it was me that wasn’t ready. Until tonight, my little boy has been exclusively breastfed. Before Larkin was born, I decided I wanted to try breastfeeding. I knew it was the healthiest choice for nourishing a newborn, and I wanted to attempt it. However, I was by no means adamant about nursing. If it worked out, great. If not, I wasn’t going to beat myself up.

I knew nothing about breastfeeding. My mom didn’t nurse her babies, my grandmother didn’t. None of my friends or extended family had nursed (at least not in my life). I had never seen anyone breastfeed, had never talked to anyone about their breastfeeding experience. I considered taking a breastfeeding class before Larkin was born, but being put on bed rest put a halt to that.

When Larkin was born, we had a rough start. Nursing may be a natural process, but it was by no means easy. I was weak and in pain after my c-section, and the little monster was HUNGRY. All the time, he wanted to eat. My colostrum had come in fine, but it wasn’t satisfying him. Every hour (at least), he would wake up crying, demanding to be fed. I’d put him in the bassinet and Jonathan would help me origami the bed pillows into the best position. Larkin would latch on, and my eyes would pop open and my toes would curl. OUCH. And then, the marathon. He ate endlessly. He would nurse me dry – literally. I could feel myself dehydrating as he chowed down. By the time he would fall asleep and unlatch, my lips would be chapped and my skin dry.

The nurses would come in to check on his feedings, and I would look up with tears in my eyes. “He’s still nursing.” “STILL? Since I was here an hour ago?” “Yeeeeeeeees!!!” They sent me a lactation consultant. She arrived just as Larkin was being wheeled to the nursery for testing. She gave me some tips, hooked me up to a pump, and left. Things didn’t improve. The next day, I begged to see the LC again. Again, she arrived while he was away being checked by the pediatrician. A few more tips, and she left. I didn’t know enough to know how useless breastfeeding advice is WITHOUT THE BABY IN THE ROOM.

When we got home from the hospital, I was getting desperate. Finally when Larkin was a week old, a family friend came by to help. Joan was my miracle worker. She had been a lactation consultant for years, and she sat down with me and Larkin and helped us work out the kinks. She adjusted our hold, our latch, and gave some priceless advice. After that night, breastfeeding began to click for us.

Since then, we’ve never looked back. Larkin lost some weight initially due to our struggles. But he quickly began putting on the pounds. Soon, it was second nature for us. It no longer hurt when he latched on. His feeding sessions were a reasonable length. And in the long run, nursing Larkin has been the single most rewarding experience in my life.

Did I do it on my own? NO. Without Joan’s intervention, I never would have gotten breastfeeding off the ground and she’s been an awesome source of information and support since then. Jonathan’s support has been invaluable. The poor man has run himself ragged accommodating me while I’m nursing. He’s fetched countless glasses of water, juggled baby and pillows and my My Breast Friend, and (my favorite) covered pretty much all of the cooking, thereby keeping me fed while I keep the baby fed. My family has supported and applauded me. The LC at the hospital across the street has helped me, free of charge, numerous times and the local La Leche leader has answered a few frantic calls. These people have my undying gratitude.

Would I have been a failure if I had been unable to breastfeed? No. Would I have let my son down if I had been unable or unwilling to nurse him? No. Would he have grown fat and happy on formula? Yes. Would we have bonded and would he love me even if he ate out of a bottle? Duh. Of course. Does breastfeeding give him magical powers and make him poop rainbows? Nope (although that would be awesome!). But am I so very glad it DID work out? YES. So very.

For the first time in my life, my body did exactly what it was supposed to, in the exact way it was supposed to do it. And that is the crux of the matter. I am finally PROUD of my body. This body has let me down in so many ways. Its suppressed immune system that allows me to get every germ that floats by. Its crooked spine and damaged nerves and muscle linings. Its emotional struggles and chemical imbalances. Its faulty thyroid and stomach and reproductive system.

But finally, when I put my baby to my breast, my body came through. I’ve been proud to watch my son’s legs go from tiny and skinny to pudgy and dimpled. His cheeks have filled out to marshmallow puffs and his belly has grown big and round, all on the power of my milk.

When he is hungry, his head swivels around and searches me out. I am the only one who can satisfy him. When he first latches on, his hands hold me and his eyes stare straight ahead in a determined stare. I can hear his frantic gasps and gulps. Then his eyes slant sideways at me, and I know he’s starting to get his happy fill. His hands reach up to my face and strokes my cheek and tangles up in my hair. He gets indignant when I make him switch sides and he frantically starts the process all over again. This time, his hand will seek out my hand. Then he will either unlatch with a milky grin or his eyes will start growing heavy in that sweet milk coma. Often, he falls asleep there, resting his head on my chest. And I will watch him sleep, working his mouth in a dream-nurse. I duck my head closer, and feel his tiny breath on my cheek.

I know he was ready to start solids. I’m happy that his daddy will be able to share in those moments of bonding that comes during feedings. And we are by no means done with nursing. But it still makes me sad. The beginning of something awesome is still the beginning of the end of something amazing.

The Reality of Motherhood

And here is my first blog that certain people may wish to avoid - for example: male family members and anyone else who would rather not hear some of the entrapments of nursing and motherhood in general. Also, anyone that I would like to have some semblance of respect for me now or in the future. Actually, it probably shouldn't be read by anyone. You should probably leave now and check in again tomorrow.

Larkin has ordained that naps will only be held for a maximum of twenty minutes at a time, and shall only be taken while in my arms. I’m vaguely aware (in the back of my sleep deprived mind) that this is a habit that needs to change. But if it’s between sitting very still for awhile (and maybe even getting a little sleep myself) or having a fussy, over-tired baby for the rest of the day – I’ll accept faking like a statue for awhile.

The true downside to this arrangement is that I get zero time during the day that I’m not actively holding a baby. Don’t get me wrong, I adore snuggling my little prince. But it does get draining to not have a minute to yourself – plus, it makes peeing very difficult. Actually, it makes doing ANYTHING pretty difficult. So basically, my day as a functioning adult starts at 10:30ish when Larkin typically gives in for the night. That’s when I’m able to edit photos, update my blog, send any e-mails which require more than one hand for writing, and just generally *relax*.

(It’s times like this that my new mantra “This too shall pass” is very effective. I’m well aware that sooner rather than later, my sweet son will want nothing to do with cuddles.)

I had just finally started to relax for the first time all day. The baby was tucked in his crib fast asleep, and I was debating between catching up on the DVR, finishing up the book I’ve been trying to read, or just following the little one into dreamland. Before I could make my decision, Larkin started to cry. HARD.

I ran into our room and picked him up. I carried him to the recliner in the living room and proceeded to nurse him back to sleep (yes, yes, also a ‘bad’ habit and blah blah blah). After awhile, his breathing became deep and regular. I went to unlatch him… and he immediately snapped awake. Sigh. Back to square one.

We repeated the dance a few time, until I was finally able to separate him (I AM THE HUMAN PACIFIER). I reached between us to pull my bra and tank back in place.  Then – WHAAAAAAAA! Sigh. We repeat the above steps, with no success. FINE, MAN. I get him back to sleep, and just leave the tank down on that side.

I stood up as slowly and carefully as possible, and headed for the crib. Blue eyes, wide open. Siiiiiigh. Sit back down, go back to nursing. Repeat the above steps three more times. Finally, he was fully asleep. I stand up with the utmost care annnnnnd: SUCCESS. *insert shallow sigh of relief, not deep enough to disturb the baby*

I take the first step towards the bedroom and disaster strikes. I feel my pants start to slide down my hips. Yes, these pants have been way too big for awhile now (they were purchased in the first trimester of my pregnancy and are the perfect transition pants: super soft, lightweight, and with no discernible waist… aka: ‘mom’ pants) but they are handy for those spur of the moment naps that I am currently surviving off of so they have stayed.

I stop and try to figure out how to salvage the situation (and any semblance of dignity). I quickly realize I am waaaay less attached to my dignity than to the concept of a sleeping child. Plus, Jonathan is outside, and there is no one around to witness my situation (until now – hello, world!) so I waddle on, pants rapidly pooling around my ankles.

I gently place my sleeping infant in his crib, then yank my pants up with one hand and tuck myself back into my top with the other. I lean over the crib, my head in my hands, and wonder where in “What to Expect When You’re Expecting” they cover things like this. I shake it off, and go outside to tell my husband goodnight.

I open the garage door and he takes one look at me.

“You’ve leaked all over your top.”

Sigh.

And THAT is how glamorous motherhood REALLY is.