Dear Lily: Do you need me anymore?

Dear Lily,

In just a few short weeks, you'll be turning one, and it seems like you sense the big moment in advance. And as exhausting as the last 20 months have been, the reality that our relationship is shifting, that you seem no longer to need me in the ways you have, is overwhelming to me.

Tonight, you nursed for a fraction of the time you used to; the hours have decreased into minutes, and now I begin to count the seconds. When you turned away to suck your thumb, indicating you were satiated, I placed you on my left shoulder, just as I always have. You babbled a bit, kicked your toes inside your sleep sack, then began to wiggle in frustration as you realized that you just couldn't get comfortable. I pulled you a little tighter to my chest, buried my nose in your soft, warm neck, and stood as carefully as I could. As I always do, I maneuvered my way to the crib, kissed your left temple gently, and laid you in your bed--where you swiftly settled for the night. And so, as I prayed over you (as your daddy and I do every night) and tiptoed out of the room, the tears began to prick my eyes. Gone are the nights when you nursed for 20 minutes, then required another 10 minutes of rocking to fall asleep; gone are the nights when you far preferred our arms over your crib. In the midst of those nights, a bedtime like the one we had tonight seemed like a dream that would never come true, but tonight I longed for those seemingly endless snuggles. (I do see the irony in all of this, of course, for the newborn snuggles don't come without the new-parent sleep deprivation, and the marathon nursing sessions brought prolonged pain and a lack of ability to accomplish anything on my to-do list. But hindsight is rather rosy on this occasion.)

I hope that, one day down the road, I'll reread this letter to you and laugh, for there will be new snuggles and new challenges, new bonds and new needs, new memories and new heartaches. Even tonight as I struggle with the idea that you're starting to wean yourself, as I wonder what you will need me for when it's not the comfort of nursing or nutrition of breast milk, I know have new things to look forward to each day. I love how, when you're finished nursing after you wake up, you now happily sit on my lap, first resting your head on my chest as you suck your thumb, then slowly waking up as you greet the day with giggles of glee and high-pitched squeals as your kitties join us in the nursery. I love how content you are to approach the morning from the safety of your mama's lap as I tell you what our day has in store. And I treasure your latest discovery. Much as Wendy convinced Peter Pan that a thimble was a kiss, you have deduced that attaching your open mouth to our noses for a moment or two is what we must expect when we ask you for a kiss. We cannot help but applaud you every time you lean into our noses, mouth open wide.

And so I know--I really do--that you will always need your mama, for I still need my mom even all these many years later. But tonight feels bittersweet, and I don't want to lose that reality, that knowledge that things which once brought me such much angst and frustration are accompanied by sad longing as they begin to come to an end.

I adore you, my bug. I will always be here to comfort you, to resolve your needs as best I can--because it is my privilege to be your mama.

With all my love and all my heart,
Your mommy

From Fear to Feasts: A journey in introducing solids

The first day we put Lily in her high chair, she was just six months old, and we were all smiles and excited anticipation. Yes, the chair straps were so huge that they couldn't even tighten on her shoulders (they still don't!), and her chin was nearly at the level of the tray, but this newest adventure sparkled on the horizon.

And then came the first round: Avocado.

Fairly certain we were poisoning her, Lily rejected each yummy chunk we proffered her. Without a pincer grip of her own, food got smashed everywhere, and I was in tears. All the stories I'd heard of introducing solids sounded so fun and delightful--babies giggling as they stuffed fistfuls of food into their mouths with glee, moms laughing delightedly as they swung their shiny hair back and forth, untouched by smashed peas. And so I was convinced I had failed.

Lily, however, had other ideas.

Within a few days, she'd started to find the fun in food (and we'd started to find that these awesome bibs were mandatory!). The process was slow--some foods were huge hits (butternut squash, sweet potatoes) while others were rather suspect (peas, carrots). A few weeks later, we started trying out purees and whole-grain hot cereals, which meant introducing a spoon. 

Not always a hit, and not always aimed the right way, we learned pretty fast to let Lily take the lead and just play. As we watched her interest grow, we started working on making our own purees for her. We'd simply steam some veggies or bake a squash or potatoes, then use the immersion blender (and a little water) to puree them. An ice cube tray turned out to be the perfect portion size, so we'd freeze cubes in batches, then pop them into ziploc bags. Suddenly, mealtime was becoming less of a production!

Of course, being away from home required a bit more creativity at this stage; hence, her hotel "breakfast in bed" (which she felt was questionable at best).

By the time Lily reached 7-8 months, her pincer grip was getting a lot better--happily so, as her stubborn desire to do things on her own was also growing. At this point, we began putting chunks of soft food on her tray. Many times, it was things she'd already had in puree form, but we also began introducing long toast fingers and chunks of chicken or ground hamburger.

With the blessing of our pediatrician, we also added in peanut butter on those toast fingers or stuffed into a pita pocket, which meant that the next necessary addition was a sippy cup to help the sticky goodness go down. Happily, Lily took to one of the first sippies we gave her--a Gerber graduates with a soft spout--quite well. (Jeff gets all the credit for finding it--he felt like it was important for her to have the two handles to grip so she could do it by herself.) Once again, we let her take the lead; the cup was always on the tray during meals, and she gradually learned to reach for it regularly as she ate.

As the months went on, Lily became more and more relaxed about her eating--so much so that she often makes us laugh with her poses!

No longer were meals a battle; Lily was just part of our family dinners--family dinners that no longer involved the TV or the coffee table. Instead, we made a concerted effort to have every meal at the table with Lily, whether we were together or alone with her. Some early days were fights; one particularly memorable one left me in tears when Jeff refused to let a whiny Lily out of her high chair after five minutes of whimpering. But Jeff was adamant: Lily needed to associate meals not just with eating but also with interacting as a family.

By the time Thanksgiving rolled around, 9-month-old Lily enjoyed several courses and nearly 45 minutes at the dinner table with the family!

Acclimating Lily to mealtimes--not just to eating--has also allowed us to enjoy meals out with friends and family, or simply a Saturday afternoon lunch with the three of us. What amuses us most now is that Lily often refuses carbs and dairy in favor of vegetables and fruit. In just the last month, she's turned down mashed potatoes in favor of salmon and asparagus, a cheese quesadilla in favor of carrots, and scrambled eggs in favor of a frittata made with mushrooms, sundried tomatoes, and spinach.

Her current favorite breakfast / snack has been affectionately nicknamed "crack muffins" in our house; they're these delicious fruit and veggie packed muffins that she shovels in by the fistful.

We've come a long way in 5 months, so I write this post as an encouragement to any mama who might be anticipating / starting / struggling with solids. As a friend often reminds me, "food before 1 is just for fun!" And you know what? It's finally starting to be a whole lot of fun!

'Twas Lily's First Christmas...

'Twas just before Christmas and all through the house,

Many creatures were stirring (most of all, our small mouse!).

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

All ready for a party with many friends who'd be there!

The child refused to be nestled all snug in her bed,

For visions of presents were dancing in her head!

And from her perch high atop Dada's back,

Lil shopped for stocking presents and made breakfast flapjacks.

Christmas Eve morn was a bit rainy, but we prepared for the day

By brushing our gums and finding new games to play.

That eve's church service featured choirs and sheep,

And patent red leather on four of our feet!

And that night before our little one was tucked into bed,

A special Talbot family Christmas tradition was read.

The next morn, Lil rose early--she just couldn't wait!--

To dive into her presents before it got too late.

With new toys to occupy our on-the-move sweets,

We left her to play and prepared a Christmas morn breakfast feast!

We'd made our little girl wait as long as she could endure,

So into the living room we went to unwrap even more!

With each new surprise, our peanut did giggle,

But her favorite game? Making Guillie's jingle bells wiggle!

With so much to look at and so much to do,

Lil' still managed to pick a favorite present--or two!

Top on the list was Granddaddy's "Peekaboo Bear,"

Who was quickly named "Sugar" and loved without compare.

And then what to Lil's wondering eyes did appear,

But a little red wagon into which she climbed without fear!

More rapid than eagles her Dada pulled her about,

Accompanied by giggles of glee and "Merry Christmas!" shouts.

When Christmas night came and the day was all through,

We reminded Lil happily, "There's more in store for you!"

In just a short month, our lil' Lil will be one,

So what's in store next? Just a whole lot more fun!

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.)