As you know, the frequency of my posts here have wound down to zero per month. And I'm okay with that. I've learned over the course of my ten years of on-and-off blogging, this is a pretty common pattern for me. I keep up the writing for a while, sometimes publicly, sometimes privately. Inevitably I go through periods of feeling very exposed/vulnerable, and I start to question how much further, deeper, more personal I will allow my writing to go. Now that Peanut is a part of my life, I think about issues surrounding her privacy, too.
For the past few months, I've been doing most of my writing about her, me, and our family on paper. For now, it feels better. Friends gave me a lovely journal during my pregnancy and it has proven to be a great space in which to begin a lifelong dialogue with her. Perhaps I'll pick up writing here again, but for now, this blog will remain a quiet space. Thanks for your comments and company over the years.
Wednesday, April 30, 2014
Saturday, December 21, 2013
15oz
That is the entirety of the backup breast milk I have in my freezer.
2.5 bottles for Peanut.
During the past month, I have been forced to go through a process of
letting go. grieving the beginning of the end of my time
breastfeeding my not-so-little baby. for unidentified reasons, my
supply took a nosedive during the month of November, and despite my
efforts to give it a boost (fenugreek capsules, tea, oatmeal, water)
the daily milk i am producing has not increased. In the meantime, i
flew through my entire freezer stash of backup milk just trying to
keep up. now just the few sacred packets remain.
For a while, I was in denial. I pumped a measly few ounces at each
session and cheerfully dipped into the freezer stash, day after day,
as I prepared bottles for daycare. And then one day, as i struggled
yet again to get even a few ounces from a pumping session, it hit me.
I came home from work that night, held Peanut in my arms, an sobbed
and sobbed as I rocked her to sleep, mourning the anticipated loss of
our breastfeeding relationship. I reached out to my former lactation
consultant, who assured me that a dip at 10 months was normal. "Your
body is preparing to make another baby," she said. "Ha," I thought.
Clearly my brain hasn't passed on the message that I am nowhere near
mentally ready to go down that road again.
The one fact for which I was grateful was that I was to make it to
Peanut's 11th month (a week ago) before having to begin supplementing.
Crossing that milestone was important to me. Many parents who choose
to wean their babies by their first birthday begin doing so at that
time, so I mentally felt more like it was a "choice" to introduce
cow's milk to Peanut, rather than a necessity, which it now is. After
taking with the pediatrician, we decided to use cow's milk instead of
formula, since she is now only a few weeks away from her first
birthday (when it is generally considered acceptable for babies to
fully transition off of breastmilk or formula to cow's milk).
So this past week, I put an ounce of cow's milk into Zia's bottles.
And then a little more. And she has taken to it well. There is
something about the experience of opening a carton of milk from the
fridge- a full box of cold, white liquid, that had been simultaneously
odd and freeing. It is a weird physical sensation to just be able to
pour milk into a bottle. As much as I want is available to me, just
right there in the fridge. After having spent nearly a year obsessing
about and measuring and counting and planning how many ounces of
breastmilk I can pour into a bottle, let me just say, it's weird to
just have access to tons of free flowing stuff.
And at the same time, I feel relief. I see a light at the end of a
tunnel of hard work, the opportunity to get through a whole work day,
or go to bed, without having to pump.
And then I started experiencing anxiety again. There were nights when
even during nursing, I didn't have enough milk for peanut. She would
cry out of frustration, of experiencing an insatiable thirst.
Watching her try to extract just a few more drops was heart wrenching,
and I couldn't bring myself to just offer her cow's milk from a
bottle. It just didn't feel right given that she hasn't hit the one
year mark yet. So the day before Christmas, I went out and bought a
canister of formula. I offered her a few ounces at home, and again,
she took to it readily.
Again, I felt a huge degree of relief. A nutritious backup option is
available to me, and in an abundance I haven't known now for several
months. If I'm not making enough on a given day, I can just go make
some. It makes me suddenly have perspective on how much pressure I've
been holding in my body around providing enough milk for little P.
2.5 bottles for Peanut.
During the past month, I have been forced to go through a process of
letting go. grieving the beginning of the end of my time
breastfeeding my not-so-little baby. for unidentified reasons, my
supply took a nosedive during the month of November, and despite my
efforts to give it a boost (fenugreek capsules, tea, oatmeal, water)
the daily milk i am producing has not increased. In the meantime, i
flew through my entire freezer stash of backup milk just trying to
keep up. now just the few sacred packets remain.
For a while, I was in denial. I pumped a measly few ounces at each
session and cheerfully dipped into the freezer stash, day after day,
as I prepared bottles for daycare. And then one day, as i struggled
yet again to get even a few ounces from a pumping session, it hit me.
I came home from work that night, held Peanut in my arms, an sobbed
and sobbed as I rocked her to sleep, mourning the anticipated loss of
our breastfeeding relationship. I reached out to my former lactation
consultant, who assured me that a dip at 10 months was normal. "Your
body is preparing to make another baby," she said. "Ha," I thought.
Clearly my brain hasn't passed on the message that I am nowhere near
mentally ready to go down that road again.
The one fact for which I was grateful was that I was to make it to
Peanut's 11th month (a week ago) before having to begin supplementing.
Crossing that milestone was important to me. Many parents who choose
to wean their babies by their first birthday begin doing so at that
time, so I mentally felt more like it was a "choice" to introduce
cow's milk to Peanut, rather than a necessity, which it now is. After
taking with the pediatrician, we decided to use cow's milk instead of
formula, since she is now only a few weeks away from her first
birthday (when it is generally considered acceptable for babies to
fully transition off of breastmilk or formula to cow's milk).
So this past week, I put an ounce of cow's milk into Zia's bottles.
And then a little more. And she has taken to it well. There is
something about the experience of opening a carton of milk from the
fridge- a full box of cold, white liquid, that had been simultaneously
odd and freeing. It is a weird physical sensation to just be able to
pour milk into a bottle. As much as I want is available to me, just
right there in the fridge. After having spent nearly a year obsessing
about and measuring and counting and planning how many ounces of
breastmilk I can pour into a bottle, let me just say, it's weird to
just have access to tons of free flowing stuff.
And at the same time, I feel relief. I see a light at the end of a
tunnel of hard work, the opportunity to get through a whole work day,
or go to bed, without having to pump.
And then I started experiencing anxiety again. There were nights when
even during nursing, I didn't have enough milk for peanut. She would
cry out of frustration, of experiencing an insatiable thirst.
Watching her try to extract just a few more drops was heart wrenching,
and I couldn't bring myself to just offer her cow's milk from a
bottle. It just didn't feel right given that she hasn't hit the one
year mark yet. So the day before Christmas, I went out and bought a
canister of formula. I offered her a few ounces at home, and again,
she took to it readily.
Again, I felt a huge degree of relief. A nutritious backup option is
available to me, and in an abundance I haven't known now for several
months. If I'm not making enough on a given day, I can just go make
some. It makes me suddenly have perspective on how much pressure I've
been holding in my body around providing enough milk for little P.
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
Snow Outing
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
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
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.
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