Dear Peanut,
Someday, when you are grown, I will
tell you stories about how I pushed your stroller five miles uphill in
several feet of snow to take you to daycare.
In
reality, it was only a half mile and a half inch, but boy, was it a
doozy of a walk. Still, seeing you bundled up with oversized mittens,
hearing your sweet singing as we slipped and slid down Main Street, and
imagining what you might be thinking about the buckets of white stuff
falling from the sky, I couldn't help but feel lucky to experience an
urban winter wonderland with you.
Love,
Your Mama
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
Thursday, October 3, 2013
On Breastfeeding at 8 months
A few weekends ago, at my parents' house, I sat down at the kitchen table to pump before heading to bed. It was late, and I was tired, but as I've learned very well by now, it's important for me to get a nightly session in to help keep up my supply. So I do it. Night after night, no matter how late the hour. This time, my mom sat down at the table with me, and caught me up on all her latest stories.
One of her tales involved going on a walk with two close family friends, one of whom is the grandmother of a child who is just three weeks older than Peanut. As they walked, they talked about how the mom of the other child was no longer able to breastfeed, since her supply had dried up. They asked if I was still breastfeeding Peanut, and my mom affirmed that indeed, I was.
"Well, that's because ss has good-sized boobs," one friend said. "So she can make a lot of milk."
I was taken aback.
"I told them that your aunt, who has tiny breasts, was able to breastfeed your cousins for a year," my mom reported. "I told them that it's because you work really hard to breastfeed, and that you're pumping at work and at night. That's why you still have milk. Not because of the size of your breasts." Her tone was indignant.
Once again, I was taken aback, but this time, in a good way. A really, really good way. While I know my mom loves me, she doesn't say it very openly, or often. She's typically more quick to judge or criticize than compliment or affirm me, especially when it comes to experiences in which she and I have a shared experience. "I did things X way so you should be able to, too," is a common refrain for her. To hear her acknowledge how much work I've put into breastfeeding Peanut for 8 months, to hear her tell me that she acknowledged the fact to other people, and defended me from the reductionist idea that my breast size determines my ability to breastfeed, especially when her own breastfeeding experience was different, was incredibly moving.
When Peanut was born, I set a goal to breastfeed her for a year, if my body and circumstances would allow. And I am so grateful that they have until now. I know not everyone has the opportunity, support, resources or privilege to make the choice to breastfeed, and I make no judgement on the situations or choices of others. It's just that I now know, intimately, how physically and emotionally challenging the experience can be.
I have now been breastfeeding Peanut for eight months. I am so proud of that fact, because it has taken time, energy, effort, calories, planning, dedication, commitment, prioritizing, and willpower. Every single day. It has required me to endlessly count ounces, pump a minimum of four times a day, deal with painful plugged ducts, commute with bottles and ice packs and pump parts on my back, pull stunts like figure out how to travel internationally with enough pumped milk on ice to sustain Peanut for 36 hours, manage constant fatigue, and so much more. And still, every day, I have made the choice to continue doing it.
It's not often that I reflect on how much of the past eight months of my life have been shaped by the experience of being a breastfeeding parent, when in fact, my current life is entirely built around it. For my mom to take the time to tell me, in the most direct way she could muster, that she was proud of my efforts, well - it felt good, and helped motivate me to keep on pumping along.
One of her tales involved going on a walk with two close family friends, one of whom is the grandmother of a child who is just three weeks older than Peanut. As they walked, they talked about how the mom of the other child was no longer able to breastfeed, since her supply had dried up. They asked if I was still breastfeeding Peanut, and my mom affirmed that indeed, I was.
"Well, that's because ss has good-sized boobs," one friend said. "So she can make a lot of milk."
I was taken aback.
"I told them that your aunt, who has tiny breasts, was able to breastfeed your cousins for a year," my mom reported. "I told them that it's because you work really hard to breastfeed, and that you're pumping at work and at night. That's why you still have milk. Not because of the size of your breasts." Her tone was indignant.
Once again, I was taken aback, but this time, in a good way. A really, really good way. While I know my mom loves me, she doesn't say it very openly, or often. She's typically more quick to judge or criticize than compliment or affirm me, especially when it comes to experiences in which she and I have a shared experience. "I did things X way so you should be able to, too," is a common refrain for her. To hear her acknowledge how much work I've put into breastfeeding Peanut for 8 months, to hear her tell me that she acknowledged the fact to other people, and defended me from the reductionist idea that my breast size determines my ability to breastfeed, especially when her own breastfeeding experience was different, was incredibly moving.
When Peanut was born, I set a goal to breastfeed her for a year, if my body and circumstances would allow. And I am so grateful that they have until now. I know not everyone has the opportunity, support, resources or privilege to make the choice to breastfeed, and I make no judgement on the situations or choices of others. It's just that I now know, intimately, how physically and emotionally challenging the experience can be.
I have now been breastfeeding Peanut for eight months. I am so proud of that fact, because it has taken time, energy, effort, calories, planning, dedication, commitment, prioritizing, and willpower. Every single day. It has required me to endlessly count ounces, pump a minimum of four times a day, deal with painful plugged ducts, commute with bottles and ice packs and pump parts on my back, pull stunts like figure out how to travel internationally with enough pumped milk on ice to sustain Peanut for 36 hours, manage constant fatigue, and so much more. And still, every day, I have made the choice to continue doing it.
It's not often that I reflect on how much of the past eight months of my life have been shaped by the experience of being a breastfeeding parent, when in fact, my current life is entirely built around it. For my mom to take the time to tell me, in the most direct way she could muster, that she was proud of my efforts, well - it felt good, and helped motivate me to keep on pumping along.
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
Finding the Body
Last week, S helped create the space in our schedule for me to go to a yoga class at our local studio. It's a wonderful, healing space, but I haven't made the time to visit since, well, the day before little Peanut was born. After many, many months of not doing any exercise whatsoever (since my third trimester, in fact), my body was feeling neglected, my muscles were simultaneously wound up and lethargic, and the opportunity to breathe and move with intention just sounded really, really good. Necessary, in fact.
So I went. There were just three other people in the class with me (which, I have to say, because I live in a city with a few too many million people in a very small geographic space, felt like such a gift). The teacher was kind and welcoming, and walked us through the class with exactly the kind of guided imagery that is helpful to me ("feel your feet solidly on the ground, imagine them connected to a root system, pulling you firmly into the earth.") By the time we arrived at our last sitting poses, I was feeling more limber, relaxed, strong. I followed the instructions to pull our legs towards us, feet together in a butterfly position. "Inhale, and bend your body forward over your legs."
So I did. I sat on my little blue mat in the warm, dimly lit room, and I breathed. I inhaled, exhaled, and stared at the space between my bent legs, the diamond they created on the floor. I inhaled, exhaled, and and felt myself overcome with un/expected feelings. There I was, seven months later, pouring energy into the space from which little Peanut came forth. There was so. much. emotion. in that space. My eyes filled with tears. Many many tears. What suddenly emerged from that little blue diamond was grief.
Before I was consumed into the impending swirl of mind/body processing, the teacher asked us to stretch out our legs and move them around. I shook the Feelings out and brought myself back to the four green walls and pale wood floors. I finished the class and walked home in the dark, warm night. As I thought back to that moment, the tears came again, and held themselves at bay, right in my throat.
Grief. Grief. Grief. The word echoed in my mind, over and over again. I asked myself, "why Grief?"
My emotional mind answered, "Grief, because what I went through in childbirth was hard. Really hard."
The rational mind countered, "But your delivery experience wasn't extraordinary. It was within the range of normal. Manageable. Everyday. No big deal."
Emotional: "Grief, because I had an epidural, and I didn't actually feel what was going on. Because I was a passive participant in my childbirth experience. Because they cut me open."
Rational: "But that was okay, you did what you needed to do to get through."
Emotional: "Grief, because I haven't been able to reconnect with that part of my body since giving birth."
Rational: "Yeah, that's pretty f'ed up. Get over your damn fear! Find pleasure again!"
Emotional: "Grief, because I'm really, really scared of the depth of emotion that is contained within my body. Grief, because I went through a physical trauma. Grief, because I didn't see the aftermath, didn't want to look at my scars. Grief, because the act of creating a very small space between my legs feels like too much. Grief, because I want to just cry, and cry, and cry."
And then I was home. I neatly put the cork back in my emotional mind, pulled the keys out of my purse, and walked into my building. And made a silent commitment to go back to class again next week.
So I went. There were just three other people in the class with me (which, I have to say, because I live in a city with a few too many million people in a very small geographic space, felt like such a gift). The teacher was kind and welcoming, and walked us through the class with exactly the kind of guided imagery that is helpful to me ("feel your feet solidly on the ground, imagine them connected to a root system, pulling you firmly into the earth.") By the time we arrived at our last sitting poses, I was feeling more limber, relaxed, strong. I followed the instructions to pull our legs towards us, feet together in a butterfly position. "Inhale, and bend your body forward over your legs."
So I did. I sat on my little blue mat in the warm, dimly lit room, and I breathed. I inhaled, exhaled, and stared at the space between my bent legs, the diamond they created on the floor. I inhaled, exhaled, and and felt myself overcome with un/expected feelings. There I was, seven months later, pouring energy into the space from which little Peanut came forth. There was so. much. emotion. in that space. My eyes filled with tears. Many many tears. What suddenly emerged from that little blue diamond was grief.
Before I was consumed into the impending swirl of mind/body processing, the teacher asked us to stretch out our legs and move them around. I shook the Feelings out and brought myself back to the four green walls and pale wood floors. I finished the class and walked home in the dark, warm night. As I thought back to that moment, the tears came again, and held themselves at bay, right in my throat.
Grief. Grief. Grief. The word echoed in my mind, over and over again. I asked myself, "why Grief?"
My emotional mind answered, "Grief, because what I went through in childbirth was hard. Really hard."
The rational mind countered, "But your delivery experience wasn't extraordinary. It was within the range of normal. Manageable. Everyday. No big deal."
Emotional: "Grief, because I had an epidural, and I didn't actually feel what was going on. Because I was a passive participant in my childbirth experience. Because they cut me open."
Rational: "But that was okay, you did what you needed to do to get through."
Emotional: "Grief, because I haven't been able to reconnect with that part of my body since giving birth."
Rational: "Yeah, that's pretty f'ed up. Get over your damn fear! Find pleasure again!"
Emotional: "Grief, because I'm really, really scared of the depth of emotion that is contained within my body. Grief, because I went through a physical trauma. Grief, because I didn't see the aftermath, didn't want to look at my scars. Grief, because the act of creating a very small space between my legs feels like too much. Grief, because I want to just cry, and cry, and cry."
And then I was home. I neatly put the cork back in my emotional mind, pulled the keys out of my purse, and walked into my building. And made a silent commitment to go back to class again next week.
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
Letter to Peanut at 7 Months
Dearest Peanut,
Spending time with you is truly the best part of each and every day. You are endlessly happy and playful, and with your smiles, laughter, calm energy, curiosity and overall contentment, you bring so much joy to my life. In truth, you enrich not only to my life, but Papa's life, Nana and Nani's lives, and to the lives of nearly everyone you meet. You have a magnetic, compelling energy about you; neighbors in our building and strangers on the street often stop to talk with you, and tell us what an amazing person you are.
I know I say this every month, but I continue to be amazed by your growing set of skills and abilities. Human development is like a magical thing, and watching you grow is like watching a caterpillar morph into a butterfly. You are finding your legs, stretching your wings, and releasing your spirit, bit by bit, day by day. Here are some milestones from this past month:
My Peanut, my love for you grows bigger every day. I'm looking forward to sharing another month of life experiences with you.
Love,
Your Mama
Spending time with you is truly the best part of each and every day. You are endlessly happy and playful, and with your smiles, laughter, calm energy, curiosity and overall contentment, you bring so much joy to my life. In truth, you enrich not only to my life, but Papa's life, Nana and Nani's lives, and to the lives of nearly everyone you meet. You have a magnetic, compelling energy about you; neighbors in our building and strangers on the street often stop to talk with you, and tell us what an amazing person you are.
I know I say this every month, but I continue to be amazed by your growing set of skills and abilities. Human development is like a magical thing, and watching you grow is like watching a caterpillar morph into a butterfly. You are finding your legs, stretching your wings, and releasing your spirit, bit by bit, day by day. Here are some milestones from this past month:
- You officially started daycare full-time, and seem to really love your time there. The teachers adore you, as do the other kids. You're the youngest of the group. When Papa or I drop you off in the mornings, the kids all gather around your stroller and call your name, touch your belly and arms, and express their excitement about seeing you. You smile or squeal and kick your legs as an excited response.
- You started eating solid foods. Despite having shown a great deal of visual interest in the foods Papa and I were eating for many weeks prior, you approached the actual consumption with some hesitance. We started you with organic bananas, sweet potatoes, and carrots, but you didn't eat more than a spoonful or two of the purees we prepared or the jarred food we bought for the first two weeks. Then, suddenly began eating with gusto. First an ounce of carrots, then sweet potatoes, peas and squash. You tried a little watermelon at the beach, and a little mango. Now you're eating about 2.5 - 3oz of veggies at a time, twice a day. I'm bummed that I haven't been able to prepare more homemade food for you yet, but I hope to do so starting in the fall.
- You started babbling with different sounds! Right before Papa's birthday, you started saying "da da da da" (which of course, Papa LOVED; he told everyone it was your birthday gift to him). I am sure that when recounting the history of your life, you're going to be told that your first word was "Dada," though at this moment we're pretty clear that you're simply playing with sounds. Right before we saw Nana a few days later, you started saying "na na na na" as well. Good timing, kid ;)
- You started sitting up, solidly. Now we can put you on the floor sitting up, and you'll play with toys there for long periods of time.
- You developed a keen interest in the cats, and frequently watched their movements around the apartment.
- One of the coolest skills you developed was the ability to find your pacifier, get to it, and put it in your mouth. Many times it will be a few feet away from you (in your crib, for instance) and you'll either roll or creep over to it, stretch your arm out, grab it, and stick it in your mouth. Then you'll realize it's the wrong way (you often stick the handle in first), take it out, look at it, turn it around using your other hand, and put it in the correct way. I don't know how to explain how remarkable it is to see you master such a complex skill.
My Peanut, my love for you grows bigger every day. I'm looking forward to sharing another month of life experiences with you.
Love,
Your Mama
Friday, August 9, 2013
Ragged
I am utterly exhausted. My bones are tired, my mind is spinning, and I can barely keep my eyes open. My boss told me to consider going home to get a head start on the evening and catch up on sleep. As someone who prides herself on Keeping It Together At All Times, that was a major blow to my front.
I'm not quite sure what I'm doing wrong, but somehow, every day feels like a marathon of to-do lists. 26.2 never-ending miles of making lunches, prepping bottles, cooking, cleaning, working, grocery shopping, running errands. I'm not really doing much else. S and I do a pretty good job of keeping routines; we cook large quantities of food once a week, we divide labor in the household equally, and at this point, we even have Peanut on a routine. She goes to bed at 8pm every night (after play, dinner, bath and bedtime story) and actually falls asleep for the night.
But it's not working.
Somehow, even as someone with so much privilege - access to lots of support and resources while doing this parenting/living life thing - I feel like I'm failing. I'm failing at doing the best I can.
I can't keep up with my own life. There is always more to do, more to manage. I try to let things go (mostly, cleaning the apartment) to create space for a little summer fun. And then things pile up and I feel more overwhelmed than before the fun.
The small things keep getting in the way of the big things. When I think about how "busy" I am, I realize I'm filling my time with things that are about maintaining my life, not embracing it or living it fully. I worry that I've relegated caring for Peanut into just another set of tasks on my list. Picked her clothes out? Check. Changed her diaper? Check. Spent thirty minutes connecting with her and making her laugh? Check.
Something needs to change.
I feel like crying when I see how truly connected Peanut is to her daycare providers, and when they tell me things I wish I knew about her daily development. I resent every minute of hustling and hauling stuff (groceries, laundry) around this challenging city. The cats feel like a nuisance. I have very little space or time to engage in real self-care - exercise, breathing, enjoying nature, cooking for fun, being creative, writing. I'm barely connecting with S at this point. We move through our days like the sun and the moon; sharing the same sky, but so very far apart from one another.
I miss Peanut. I miss S. I miss myself. I have run myself ragged. And I don't know how to stop.
I'm not quite sure what I'm doing wrong, but somehow, every day feels like a marathon of to-do lists. 26.2 never-ending miles of making lunches, prepping bottles, cooking, cleaning, working, grocery shopping, running errands. I'm not really doing much else. S and I do a pretty good job of keeping routines; we cook large quantities of food once a week, we divide labor in the household equally, and at this point, we even have Peanut on a routine. She goes to bed at 8pm every night (after play, dinner, bath and bedtime story) and actually falls asleep for the night.
But it's not working.
Somehow, even as someone with so much privilege - access to lots of support and resources while doing this parenting/living life thing - I feel like I'm failing. I'm failing at doing the best I can.
I can't keep up with my own life. There is always more to do, more to manage. I try to let things go (mostly, cleaning the apartment) to create space for a little summer fun. And then things pile up and I feel more overwhelmed than before the fun.
The small things keep getting in the way of the big things. When I think about how "busy" I am, I realize I'm filling my time with things that are about maintaining my life, not embracing it or living it fully. I worry that I've relegated caring for Peanut into just another set of tasks on my list. Picked her clothes out? Check. Changed her diaper? Check. Spent thirty minutes connecting with her and making her laugh? Check.
Something needs to change.
I feel like crying when I see how truly connected Peanut is to her daycare providers, and when they tell me things I wish I knew about her daily development. I resent every minute of hustling and hauling stuff (groceries, laundry) around this challenging city. The cats feel like a nuisance. I have very little space or time to engage in real self-care - exercise, breathing, enjoying nature, cooking for fun, being creative, writing. I'm barely connecting with S at this point. We move through our days like the sun and the moon; sharing the same sky, but so very far apart from one another.
I miss Peanut. I miss S. I miss myself. I have run myself ragged. And I don't know how to stop.
Monday, July 8, 2013
The Next Big Thing
I can't believe how quickly S's twelve weeks of parental leave have flown by. A week from today, he returns to work and Peanut will be in daycare full time - nearly 50 hours per week. (I guess I should mention here that in early June, we stumbled upon a seemingly great residential daycare in our neighborhood - and with much relief, decided to sign Peanut up.)
Today, Peanut began her transition to daycare by visiting the facility for an hour. S sent me a picture of her with one of the providers this morning, and when I saw it, I unexpectedly started crying. The tears came and went all day, in fact. In the photo she was smiling, and seemed happy. It began to really hit me that S and I are no longer going to be her primary caretakers. We are entering a time in our lives when other folks will be helping to raise our child in a meaningful and significant way.
When I returned to work in mid-April, the transition, for me, was relatively easy. I enjoyed being back in my routine and felt good about the fact that S had an opportunity to spend a few months with Peanut. I needed a break from the exhaustion of caring for a newborn on my own and not really being able to take care of myself. I don't think I took into account how much of the fact that S was at home helped me emotionally jump right back into my work.
Now that Peanut is almost six months old, I am realizing I have more emotional work to do as I continue to show up at my office every day. Much more. This transition is the one that involves both of us being away from her, all day, every day, for the forseeable future. Maybe forever. This transition involves opening our hearts to others, trusting complete strangers, letting go of control of the world around her, and picking our battles. How important is it for us to stand up for Peanut's right to not have petroleum jelly spread on her bum after every diaper change, or to be exposed to television, no matter how "educational" the content, all day long? How much will we open ourselves to being taught by others? How much will Peanut's understanding of the world around her be shaped by people with whom we don't necessarily share certain core values?
It feels really scary, hard, and sad. I'm not quite as ready for this change as I thought I'd be.
Today, Peanut began her transition to daycare by visiting the facility for an hour. S sent me a picture of her with one of the providers this morning, and when I saw it, I unexpectedly started crying. The tears came and went all day, in fact. In the photo she was smiling, and seemed happy. It began to really hit me that S and I are no longer going to be her primary caretakers. We are entering a time in our lives when other folks will be helping to raise our child in a meaningful and significant way.
When I returned to work in mid-April, the transition, for me, was relatively easy. I enjoyed being back in my routine and felt good about the fact that S had an opportunity to spend a few months with Peanut. I needed a break from the exhaustion of caring for a newborn on my own and not really being able to take care of myself. I don't think I took into account how much of the fact that S was at home helped me emotionally jump right back into my work.
Now that Peanut is almost six months old, I am realizing I have more emotional work to do as I continue to show up at my office every day. Much more. This transition is the one that involves both of us being away from her, all day, every day, for the forseeable future. Maybe forever. This transition involves opening our hearts to others, trusting complete strangers, letting go of control of the world around her, and picking our battles. How important is it for us to stand up for Peanut's right to not have petroleum jelly spread on her bum after every diaper change, or to be exposed to television, no matter how "educational" the content, all day long? How much will we open ourselves to being taught by others? How much will Peanut's understanding of the world around her be shaped by people with whom we don't necessarily share certain core values?
It feels really scary, hard, and sad. I'm not quite as ready for this change as I thought I'd be.
Monday, July 1, 2013
The Fierce Love of a Papa
This past weekend, S, Peanut and I attended the wedding of a family friend. We anticpated that Peanut would take a nap during the evening reception, but between the bumping DJ, the energized emcee, and the excited wedding guests, the event turned out to be VERY loud. We decided that one of us should hold little Peanut close, cover her up with a blanket, and rock her during the raucous festivities. S did so first, and at some point left the room to help soothe our little one.
When he returned to the dinner table, S continued to hold and rock her, and talked to her softly through the blanket. I decided to check in to ask if he needed some help, as nearly 45 minutes had passed.
Me: "Aren't you tired of holding her? I'm happy to take over."
S: "No, I'm not tired. I'm very happy holding her in my arms. I will hold her every day until she's 18 years old. And longer. Maybe when she's 21, I'll say, now my arms can rest."
Maybe it was the fact that we were listening to sweet, emotional wedding toasts. More likely, it's just that S has such a beautiful way with words. But his comment was so unexpected, and moved me so much, that my chest swelled up and I had to hold back tears. I simply nodded in response, and turned back to the hoopla on the dance floor. All I could think was, how lucky is Peanut to be blessed by such a fiercely loving, expressive, and devoted Papa?
When he returned to the dinner table, S continued to hold and rock her, and talked to her softly through the blanket. I decided to check in to ask if he needed some help, as nearly 45 minutes had passed.
Me: "Aren't you tired of holding her? I'm happy to take over."
S: "No, I'm not tired. I'm very happy holding her in my arms. I will hold her every day until she's 18 years old. And longer. Maybe when she's 21, I'll say, now my arms can rest."
Maybe it was the fact that we were listening to sweet, emotional wedding toasts. More likely, it's just that S has such a beautiful way with words. But his comment was so unexpected, and moved me so much, that my chest swelled up and I had to hold back tears. I simply nodded in response, and turned back to the hoopla on the dance floor. All I could think was, how lucky is Peanut to be blessed by such a fiercely loving, expressive, and devoted Papa?
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