No, you don't understand. (But that's okay.)

This one might be a bit controversial, friends. You might think it's about you. (Though, if you are sensitive enough to think it's about you, it's probably not--I promise.) But I feel like it needs to be said.

Ever since our miscarriage in January of 2012, people have told me "I understand because...". And, while I appreciate the sentiment, I am--quite frankly--annoyed. I understand that you're attempting to be sympathetic, but what you need to understand is that you may very well be lying.

Let me explain.

My mom had a stroke in July of 2005. It was a long night and a long road to recovery, but she has recovered. I can talk to her on the phone any time I want to, and I've seen her hold my daughter in her arms and watched my daughter giggle in delight with her multiple times. So it would be completely inappropriate to tell one of my friends who has lost a beloved parent that "I understand because my mom had a stroke and I thought I might lose her."

I experienced two early miscarriages. They broke my heart, and they erased memories of the life I'd imagined. However, I don't know what it feels like to enter the second or third trimester and then to lose a child. I don't know how it feels to have a completely prepared nursery and drive to the hospital with a car seat strapped in only not to bring home a baby. How heartless would it be of me to claim to a mom of a stillborn baby or a baby tragically lost to SIDS, "I understand because I had early miscarriages"?

I have one, amazing, wonderful daughter. She is currently playing on the floor with Jeff (and an empty beer bottle), and she will be happily eating a full meal in 2 minutes, then having a lovely bath before settling down to nurse and sleep by 8pm. Though she may wake in the night, that would be an unusual occurrence. To say "I understand reoccurring sleep problems because Lily occasionally wakes up to eat at 4am" would be ridiculous.

Being a teacher is a gift as a parent; it allows me approximately three months of the year (2 weeks in December, 2 weeks in March, and 2 months in the summer) at home with my daughter. But I have friends who are stay-at-home moms (or dads) year-round. Who slog through the winter chill and the rainy spring, who deal with planning new activities daily, who have to schedule every minute of their lives, seven days a week, around diapers and feedings and potential meltdowns. Would I ever tell them "I understand because I get to stay at home a few months of each year?"

Even now, I have several friends who have little ones around Lily's age who are due once again late this summer or early next fall. And I imagine trying to look them in the eye next August and extolling how "I understand how tired you are because I have a toddler, too." But I won't understand. I won't understand what it means to chase a toddler while nursing a newborn. I won't understand what it means to control a "terrible 2" tantrum while trying to soothe an infant to sleep. And any pretense that I do would be nothing more than an insult.

And so I am led to my point. Jeff and I are in an unusual situation; though we are "older" parents, few of our friends are married and fewer still have children. And yet I have heard over and over again throughout the past 11 months from friends without children that "I understand having children more than you know."

To put it bluntly: no, you don't.

You may be an aunt or an uncle. You may have helped out in the weeks following the birth of a friend's child--you may even have stayed under the same roof as a newborn--but that doesn't mean you understand what it is to be a new parent to your own child, to never have an actual break from caring for that little life, to put an innocent baby's interests before your own at all costs, to make every decision in light of how it will affect your family. It doesn't mean you understand what it is to wake to either a cry or an alarm for work every morning for a year or that you can fathom what it is to perform your daily responsibilities with no promise you will get more rest that night or over the weekend or while on an upcoming vacation.

All I ask--all I plead--is that you think before you say "I understand because...". Do you really? Have you walked in those shoes? If not, might it be better to say, "I can't possibly understand, but can I hold the baby while you shower / bring you dinner / babysit so you can have a date night"? Might it be better to admit that "I don't understand yet, but I know and love you and can see your exhaustion / frustration / anxiety, so how can I help?"

It's okay not to understand. In fact, it would be weird if you did, for how many of us truly walk in each other's experiences? But it's not okay to patronize me, to express that you "get it," to minimize my experience into your fraction of it.

Just think before you say it, okay?

Nine, Ten, Eleven, Floor.

One late night as I tiptoed back to bed after rinsing my pump parts in the kitchen sink, Jeff groggily raised his head from the pillow. "Why do you count?" he asked. "Count?" I queried, a bit confused. (This was, after all, in the midst of the first four months of sleep deprivation.) "Count the steps. Every night I hear you: 'nine, ten, eleven, floor.' Why do you count?"

I don't think I'd realized I was doing it aloud until that moment, so the question caught me off guard. The rhythmic counting, though, was designed to do exactly the opposite: so that I wouldn't be caught off guard on my endless trips up and down the stairs in the wee hours of the morning, I'd started counting the steps. Since Lily's nursery is at the top of the stairs, turning on the hall light wasn't an option, so I had to figure out another way to navigate my ascents and descents. Without realizing it, I'd become reliant on the cadence of my foot falling on the eleven carpeted steps before hitting the wood flooring at the top or bottom.

After Jeff's question that night, I began to think more about the other small things I never noticed before Lily was in our lives. Until about a month ago, I never knew exactly where the outlets were in each room--not until I had to crawl on my hands and knees, outlet protectors tucked in my sweatshirt pocket. I had no idea that not only a cat but also a small person could wedge herself through the railing in the living room, and I hadn't stopped to think about how enticing a roll of toilet paper would be, particularly if the holder provides a sturdy enough grip for pulling oneself up. No one told me that the bubbling cat fountain would make a perfect hand washing station or that the dry kibbles of Iams on the floor presented an easily obtainable snack.

But I also never realized how much joy there is in a Saturday morning when your daughter is gleefully banging Tupperware on the kitchen floor as you pour a cup of coffee and your husband forages in the fridge for breakfast. I never knew that a mealtime punctuated with squeals of delight and flapping arms could make me laugh so hard. And I certainly had no idea that peekaboo could occupy me for hours on end when every new "peek" is accompanied by a spontaneous giggle.

Though my trips up and down the stairs are less frequent now, they still happen. Inevitably, they are related to Lily's comfort or well-being in some way--I'm returning pump parts to the kitchen, carrying her monitor upstairs at the end of the night, or checking the thermostat to make sure the nursery is warm enough for her. Instead of feeling frustrated by them, though--as I'm prone to feel at some hour when I'd far rather be sleeping--I try to now remember that it's a privilege to count the stairs, a privilege to know that just twelve steps takes me to the threshold of my daughter's door, to the sight of her exuberant grin, to the sound of her deep breaths as she sleeps.

Nine, ten, eleven... Joy.

Dear Lily: You have a fever.

As I type this (on my phone), you're sound asleep on my shoulder. It's reminding me of those long days and nights when you were a newborn, those hours you spent snuggled on my chest, breathing deeply. Now, though, you take up more than my whole torso, even with your legs tucked up under your tummy, and my hand and wrist are numb from  holding your weight. You woke once, hearing a neighbor's dog bark, but your daddy rushed to the window to close it so you could settle back to sleep right away.

From where I sit in the glider, I can feel Rosie's tail draped across my feet; she's sleeping on the footstool, near enough to keep an eye on you. Your daddy has set up mission control on your nursery floor, the very one we chose a year ago now. With pillows piled beneath his chest, he's propped up watching QuickDraw, but he's quick to check in if you stir or whimper. I'm fairly certain Ozzy and Guillie are close by, too, likely just out of sight on the other side of Daddy or watching from the hallway.

We are all here, my sweet, because you don't feel good. Because each member of this family wants to take away your aches and sniffles. I've rubbed a cool washcloth over your warm torso, just as my own daddy used to; your daddy has sung to you just as both our mommies used to. We are, ironically, so grateful your first major fever came on a Saturday so that neither of us faces the distress of watching you in pain alone.

So, yes, we have missed a party with friends today. And we will change tomorrow's plans as needed. And we are prepared to sit up all night, rocking you gently, soothing you softly, taking your mind off your discomfort in any way we're able. Because it's our privilege to care for you, our sweet daughter. Because we want you to know--always--you will never be alone. Because--in light of recent devastating news stories of a much loved missing daughter--we treasure the moments we spend, overheated and pinned to a glider, loving you.

Sleep tight, my sweet. We'll be right here when you awake.

With all the love our healing hearts can hold,

Your mommy and daddy

I Hate Breastfeeding,

Please don't tell me it's beautiful.

Please don't remind me how fortunate I am to be able to do it.

Please don't show me evidence of how beneficial it is for Lily.

Please don't explain to me how it will get better.

We're over seven months in, and I still hate breastfeeding. I have a freezer stash that's ridiculous (we're not even into our August milk and it's mid-September); I pump enough most days that Jeff barely has to give a bottle that's not fresh while I'm at work; we have a designated "Mother's Room" at work, and my boss has no issues with the breaks I take to pump.

I still hate breastfeeding.

So, more than seven months later, why do I do it?

1) It's economical. (Formula costs a lot more than what I produce.)

2) It's "best" for Lily. (Read the campaigns. There's no overwhelming evidence to encourage formula.)

3) It soothes our daughter. (Even though it usually hurts me like a bitch.)

Yes, I've seen the lactation consultants. Yes, I've discussed--and tried--changing her latch, switching the flange size, or altering positions. Yes, I've read every article and soaked up every post on how to make breastfeeding more comfortable/rewarding/enjoyable.

None of that has changed how I feel. I resent the fact that I'm Lily's primary nutrition source. It pisses me off that every day ends with me pumping... and the next morning starts the same way. I hate the guilt I feel from a "pump and dump." I have such intense anger about the way my body has become the property of my daughter instead of the property of me and my husband.

So, I will continue to breastfeed--because I understand the benefits, because I logically see why I should, because our finances dictate it.

But for anyone out there reading this post and experiencing what I am, I have to reassure you that you are not alone. That I don't know if it's okay or appropriate or approved, but that I, too, hate breastfeeding.

P.S. This post doesn't include a photo. Because I'd prefer none are taken of Lily nursing. Because, again, I don't find that action, or myself doing that action, beautiful--and I have no desire to preserve it for posterity.

(I originally wrote this post Saturday night but removed it this morning, embarrassed of what I'd written. However, at Jalara's encouragement--who saw it before I took it down--I'm trying to be courageous and repost it. I haven't changed any of the original post.)

Tears & Fears

I hesitate to write this post, but I also know that I've always chosen to be honest on this blog, through the moments of joy and of pain. And while everything holds true from my last post--because who wouldn't be smitten with our sweet girl?!--there are some realities facing me right now that are causing a great deal of anxiety, fear, and tears.

Today, I took Lily to school with me. We just went for an hour, just long enough for me to set up the classroom I haven't inhabited in over six months. And while there was an incredible sense of gratitude in watching my daughter play in a room I truly never believed she'd enter, there was also both a real and a metaphorical dichotomy going on. I found myself trying to balance rehanging pictures and restocking my desk with running across the room to pick Lily up or to sing to her for a moment, trying to race down the hall to get something from my office before she started to squeal too loudly, trying to--in short--be a mom and a teacher at the same time. Within just a few minutes, it became clear just how tenuous a tightrope I'll be walking as I return to work next week.

Yes, I "signed up" for all of this--for being a mom, for continuing to teach, for breastfeeding through at least her first year, for being on an opposite schedule from Jeff so we can avoid the astronomical cost of daycare. However, as a dear friend reminded me, signing up for it doesn't mean I'm not overwhelmed or anxious or questioning each step of the journey. And in moments like this one--moments when breastfeeding is suddenly quite difficult and I have no idea how to schedule pumping into my teaching day and I fear I'll never get a stack of papers graded in a timely fashion--it's easy to lose sight of reality.

Reality tells me everything will get done. Just like every tech week I ever did before a show, just like every mountain of Odyssey essays in the winter, just like every week of meal planning and buying and preparing, things get done. But, just now, just today, the trees are pretty thick, and there's no forest in sight.

So, I write this post because... Because I need to tell myself that being scared of this transition isn't something to be ashamed of. Because it's okay that I'm still breastfeeding not necessarily because I enjoy it but more because I'm grateful that I have the supply to save us the cost of formula. Because I can be smitten with the little girl napping in the next room while still dreading the thought of putting her to bed by myself most nights. Because I need to know--and I need other moms to know--that it's okay to be frustrated and scared and wondering how you got here even when this is the life you prayed for and dreamed of for so many distressing years.

These are neither the first nor the last tears I'll shed over transitions in our family--I know that. But, for me, they are significant today, so I'm sharing them with you.

Because it's all part of our journey.

Dear Lily: We're smitten with you.

Dear lil' Lil',

It's true--we're smitten. We greet pretty much every day by saying, "gosh, you're adorable!" and then delighting in your broad grin and sparkly giggle that you always offer as a response. Though we're still not quite sure how we got from these milestones a year ago to the ones I'm about to share, we are fairly certain that no parents have ever been as blessed or as head-over-heels in love as we are.

So, without further ado, may I offer just a few of the reasons we're so smitten?

You are so delighted by water.

When you were itty bitty, the bath was a battle, and your poor dad feared he'd never get to share his love of the water with you. With the arrival of summer, though, your attitude completely changed, and it's so much fun to watch you explore pools, bathtubs, and even your sippy cup!

You're such a person.

We're realizing that you've transformed from this helpless little creature who would nestle on our chests with feet that didn't even reach our bellybuttons into a little girl who loves to stand and bounce whenever given the chance. (And despite your vertically-challenged mom, you're sprouting into the 75% for height!)

You're always game for trying something new.

Much to your granddaddy's delight, your first equine encounter produced no tears, only curiosity. Watching you stretch out your hand first to meet Rocky, my childhood horse, then to grasp the horn of my saddle was just incredible. Your granddaddy is going to have a pony waiting for you in Connecticut by next summer, we're pretty sure!

Your messy face (almost) always makes the clean-up worth it.

You seem a lot less sure of cracked wheat cereal than you do of avocado, but that makes sense to us: your fierce independence means you'd far rather mash that squash into your mouth than have us spoon it in. Despite being so tiny in your high chair, you readily slide in for family dinner every night, much to our great joy.

You squeal at the sight of your kitties.

(And you've also apparently worked out some system of zone defense / quadrant restrictions with them on the bed.) They are so patient with and tolerant of you--Rosie lets you tug on her ears and even Guillie occasionally allows you to catch her tail. And when you're happily bouncing away in your Jumperoo, nothing makes you more delighted than catching sight of Ozzy streaking by.

Your smile is infectious.

We know we're more than a bit biased, but this one is universally agreed upon by friends, families, and strangers alike: nothing makes that sad-faced lady at the grocery store break out in a grin faster than your exuberant smile. There's nothing stingy about your joy--you just want to share it with the world!

You want to be just like us.

First, you wanted our water bottles, so we got you a pink sippy cup. Next, you went after our phones, so we let you slobber all over the cases. Lately, the best food seems to be the morsels on our plates. Yet, as frustrated as we may get pulling each object out of your (remarkably strong) grip, we take secret delight in watching you watch us and in knowing that we have the great privilege--and terrifying responsibility--of being your role models.

You make us "we three."

Our little love, our sweet and salty peanut, our pumpkin-a-tor, our sweet pea of joy: you have added to our lives in ways we always dreamed of and ones we never could have imagined. We are so blessed by you, so smitten with you, so in awe of you.

Thank you for allowing us to be your mom and dad.

With all our hearts,

The Bubs and the Beard

My First Shower (or Why I Finally Joined the Pinterest Movement)

 

Two of Jeff and my best friends are getting married this August (which is a whole story in and of itself--they met when she was the maid of honor and he was the best man at our wedding!). From the day L called to tell me they were engaged, I've been excited to plan her bridal shower. I knew it would be a small affair, and I also knew I wanted to keep it in line with their backyard, low-key, country wedding. But that was about all I knew... I'd never planned a shower of any kind before.

Thanks to a great deal of peer pressure from another one of my best friends, Jenn (who blogs over on The Canadian Housewife), I finally started to explore Pinterest--with a little excitement and a lot more trepidation. However, as I began to create the board for the shower, I realized just how many wonderful, inexpensive, lovely ideas I could find with a quick and simple search. I was hooked!

So, here's the photo tour!

We threw the shower in L's sister's backyard, and she had a lovely side deck that was perfect for our "drinks station." For the favors, I had purchased Mason jars with handles, added cute chalkboard stickers with every guest's name, and popped a pretty floral paper straw in each one. We then filled the table with the glasses and assorted beverages: Pimm's, mimosa makings, assorted non-alcoholic juices, white wine, and water.

Thanks, once again, to Jenn (seriously, she inspired so much of this party--from Canada!), I made colorful tissue paper luminaries to hang. (Jenn did them on her blog here, and this is the link to the Martha Stewart instructions I used.) I alternated white tissue paper with the paper the colors of the shower (green, yellow, and white). Since I had to travel to Baltimore for the shower, I simply did the folding and twist-tie stage ahead of time, then had L's niece poof them out and hang them. She did a great job!

Throughout these photos, you'll see the floral centerpieces. I didn't want to spend a lot of money, so I spent a few weeks collecting tin cans (mostly from some of my favorite slow cooker recipes), then bought a $1 spool of white tulle at the Dollar Store. We tied a pretty bow around each can, then filled them with sunflowers and other simple flowers. The grand total for 6 floral centerpieces? $16!

The majority of the food I ordered from Fresh Market (a sandwich platter, fruit and cheese tray, and cupcakes), but I found this adorable idea on Pinterest and just loved it! Essentially, it's a popcorn bar--you grab a brown paper bag, fill it with plain popcorn, spray on some butter, and then shake on your favorite toppings (I brought cayenne pepper, salt, sugar, and a powdered herb mix). It was great for everyone to snack on as they were mingling at the beginning!

L wasn't big on games, and not everyone brought presents, since she's only registered on Honey Fund. As a result, I wanted a few activities people could do during lulls in the conversation, but nothing formal or organized. In the picture above, you see the "Date Jar"; people wrote cute date ideas on popsicle sticks which L then took home to share with her fiance.

On the drink table, I had a "Memory Vase" where I encouraged people to write down silly or sentimental memories they had of times with L that she could read when she was feeling stressed in the weeks leading up to the wedding.

Finally, I created an "Advice Tree"; I'd cut green poster board into leaf shapes and asked people to write pieces of advice, then attach them to the tree with the clothespins provided.

All in all, I'm quite proud of my first shower! The planning was really fun, but I couldn't have pulled it off without the help from the other bridesmaids who purchased items, set up on the day of the shower, and co-hosted beautifully. And I stayed within my budget goal: the grand total for everything was $300, which was very reasonable when split three ways.

I'm hooked on shower planning! Anyone got an event coming up that I can help out with? ;-)