The Care and Keeping of Me

One whole shelf of our bookcase is dedicated to parenting books. There's Babywise and Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child - reminders of the sleepless first 10 months of my son's life. Without fail he would wake up two, three, four times a night, despite my best efforts to keep him asleep. I read them frantically, devotedly, sure they held the key my sleep-starved body was longing for. (For the record, none of the tricks worked, but he's now five and sleeps like a rock from 8 p.m. to 7 a.m. every night. Solidarity, tired mommas.) Next to the sleeping books that beget very little additional shuteye in our house, you'll find the What to Expect set - a misnamed series if ever there was one. Most of pregnancy and the first year of motherhood were muttered oaths followed by why didn't anyone WARN me?!?

Holding up the end of the shelf is a behemoth from the American Academy of Pediatrics that only gets consulted when a weird rash pops up at 2 a.m. (because that kind of thing never happens during office hours), plus a couple of "humorous" books received as gifts.

The books on that shelf purport to hold the answers to all of my parenting questions. If the books somehow fail me, there's the whole wide world of Google. I can find out the right dose of Tylenol for a teething five month old and watch YouTube swaddling videos. There's a seemingly endless fount of information on how to make, birth and care for a baby, right at my fingertips.

But what about me? Where are the books and the experts who can tell me how to take care of me?

Almost two years ago, I was staring down the last few days of a maternity leave that just wasn't long enough. Ellie still wouldn't nap anywhere other than on my chest. Her eating schedule was every hour and a half (two hours on a really good day) and she hated bottles, so it was all me, all the time. We'd also just found out she had dairy and soy allergies, which meant my diet was reduced to apples and water ... or so it felt. Postpartum women are known for their dramatics.

Compounding the realities of life with a hard baby, I'd taken Ellie by my office that day for the obligatory meet and greet. After a conversation or two, I learned that literally nothing on my "please do while I'm out" list had actually been done. The number of projects, hugely overdue and awaiting my return, was daunting. Frustrated and overwhelmed, I cried the whole way home.

That night once Nathan was in bed, Jon and I had a deep, heartfelt marriage talk. Just kidding; we had a preschooler and a newborn. Deep and heartfelt weren't exactly in our wheelhouse at the time. I believe the conversation actually went something like this:

Me: It was awful visiting work today. I don't want to go back. Jon: Well ... then don't. Me: Seriously? Jon: Seriously. Quit your job. We'll make it work.

So I did. And we did. It wasn't easy, especially those first few months. Not only were we a dual income household, we were a 50/50 income household - which meant we had just slashed our budget in half. The belt tightening felt more like a corset. We ate spaghetti every week for a couple of months and it was an extraordinarily lean Christmas, but we managed. By January, I'd landed some regular part-time work for a non-profit and Jon had gotten an unexpected raise, which built a little breathing room into our budget.

But what our budget gained, my sanity lost. Every morning I was up at 5:30 or 6 to feed Ellie, and the marathon was on. I pushed on through a full day of occupying an infant and a four year old; balancing feedings and fort building, trying to prove that I could do this stay at home mom thing. I managed to get both children's naps overlapping for one hour of the day, and I used that hour to tackle the mountain of laundry or do a little cleaning. Then came the whirlwind of dinner, bath and bedtime, followed by working another few hours and finally crawling in bed at midnight. Between my highly-restricted diet and a daughter who nursed all the freaking time, the baby weight dropped off quickly. It kept dropping though, and within a few short months I was down nearly 30 pounds from my pre-pregnancy weight. I was the thinnest I've ever been, with everyone complimenting how "great" I looked. But I was also exhausted and lifeless. The tears came regularly and over the silliest of things, but what worried me more was the rage I would feel sometimes. It felt like I was hanging on by the thinnest of threads. I went to see my OB/GYN, but she insisted it wasn't postpartum depression. In desperation, I reached out to a nutritional consultant. I was still losing at least two pounds a week, and with another six months of nursing on deck at a minimum, something had to be done.

The consultant was wonderful. She asked gentle questions about what I was eating and how much, and how frequently Ellie was nursing.

"It sounds like you're not replacing everything that's going out," she told me. "You're trying to operate from a place of depletion, and your body can't keep up with that for very long."

I knew she was talking about calories and proteins and healthy fats, but it hit me like a ton of bricks. Because she was talking about my life. I finished the conversation in a daze, promising to put avocado on everything and eat peanut butter and almond butter by the spoonful. She gave me a recipe for a protein shake with a calorie count that bordered on the ridiculous.

I thanked her profusely, and when we hung up, the tears came again ... but without the rage. I knew what would eventually heal and restore my body would do the same for my soul. I realized that I needed to slow the blur of life a little. I started carving out time for coffee with a friend. I let the housework and laundry go and started working during naptimes so that I could get in bed at a decent time. I needed more sustenance, and I committed myself to finding it. Maybe I couldn't change what was demanded of me, but I could work harder at pouring more into myself so I could meet the challenges without losing myself so completely.

Today, things are better. I'm not so skinny anymore, but that's because I'm not starving. My house is only tidy on Thursdays, because that's cleaning day. Once a week, I leave the bedtime routine to Jon, and I head out to dinner with friends or to Starbucks by myself for a few hours. I make time almost every day to do a devotional, to write, to read. I commit myself to reaching out once a week, via email or text, to a friend I haven't talked to in awhile. We have the kids enrolled in a preschool program two days per week, so I have dedicated time for working. It sounds a little indulgent when I string it all together like that, but the truth is, it's what I need. It fills me up and makes me whole, and my children deserve a healthy and whole momma.

There was no book or three-day method to guide me in figuring it out. There was just rock-bottom, and clawing my way back to a life that I could live in. I think that's why new moms tug on my heartstrings so. When I drop off a meal or stop by for a chat, I whisper the words to them that I finally learned to say to myself:

Take care of you.

Season of Should

  Should. It’s such a shitty word. “Should” ignores accomplishments in favor of a towering to-do list of impossible tasks and unforgiving criticism. I should spend more time playing with the children. I should stop playing and get that proposal completed. I should shave my legs. I should call my mom. I should work on math with Nathan. I should read more books with Ellie. I should be able to pee alone. I should cook dinner. I should be a better wife.

I didn’t used to be such a should-er. There was a time, B.K. (before kids), when I moved confidently. I worked, I wifed and I friended, without giving much thought to the paths I wasn’t taking. Even when Jon and I made the decision to get pregnant, there wasn’t any waffling. But one quick (and fun!) month and a positive pregnancy test later, the season of should began.

Should I be worried about those three, okay four, beers I had at the cookout last Saturday before I knew I was pregnant? Should I scale back at work? Should we increase our life insurance policies? The first time I walked into Babies R Us, the shoulds hit me with such force that I nearly hyperventilated. When week 36 rolled around and we found out that Nathan had stopped growing, requiring a c-section for his safety and mine, the shoulds were shouting.

I should’ve been more careful. I should’ve drunk less coffee. I shouldn’t have eaten that piece of sushi.

Five pounds of dark-headed perfection couldn’t shake the should monster. He was fine; I was fine – and yet the shoulds still haunted me. It’s as though I failed at my first task of being a mother, at bringing him safely into the world. He made it, but it should’ve been better.

Here I sit, five years and another child later, and the shoulds still linger. But on a good day, I can feel the tease of a shift in seasons close by.

It started 15 months ago, when I was down to my last few days of maternity leave following the birth of our daughter. Instead of going back to work, I quit a job I didn’t enjoy, the one I dreaded returning to. This also meant that we cut our income nearly in half. I fully expected panic and self-doubt to set in, but the shoulds were surprisingly silent. We scrimped and penny-pinched and ate way more spaghetti than I cared for, but within months I’d lined up a part-time job that let me work from home as much (or as little) as I could manage.

The dynamic in our marriage shifted dramatically; no longer were we equals in the workforce and on the home front. Suddenly, Jon was the breadwinner, and I was doing the lion’s share of the cooking, cleaning, laundry and childrearing. For someone as fiercely independent as me, that should have chafed. It should’ve led to arguments and resentments, but instead it just felt … right. While it’s not always an easy choice and some days are downright awful, there’s still an overriding peace that I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be at this moment of my life.

In this role, I’m realizing my own strength battling the shoulds when it comes to my children. Take my daughter, Ellie, for example. She should be able to fall asleep on her own every night. We probably ought to bite the bullet and cry it out or ferberize or babywise or some such. But when I hold her close and rock her gently, she falls asleep within minutes. The whirlwind toddler is gone and my baby is back in my arms for a few brief moments. For once, I’m not telling her no and redirecting; I’m giving her exactly what she wants, and gladly. On the heels of the hard days, she and I both need those minutes to fall in love with each other again.

As for Nathan, I learned the other day that he should be able to draw a recognizable stick figure – head, body, limbs, facial features. What he draws most closely resembles a potato with toothpicks jutting out of it (he’s mostly his daddy, but I’m afraid I’ll have to take credit for his art skills, or lack thereof). While he may be lousy at drawing them though, he sees people more clearly than anyone I know. Our conversations at bedtime frequently turn to who was alone on the playground that day at school and why and always end with Nathan’s resolve to invite that child to be his friend the next day. His gentle heart can’t bear another’s loneliness. Being empathetic and kind is effortless to him, and my heart comes near to bursting when I see how well he loves others. A perfectly-rendered stick man could never bring that joy.

That’s the thing about children, though– milestones and shoulds and checklists don’t mean much to them. They revel in what is, without a thought to what could be. They’re perfectly content with who they are. For all that I’m trying to teach them, about letters, numbers and how to treat others, my children are handing out lessons of their own in the school of motherhood.

Perhaps that’s the reason for my newfound confidence, for my release of how things should be and my embrace of how things are. When you spend your days with two little people who are constantly saying new words and learning new skills, you realize how quickly it’s all slipping by. There’s not enough time to both celebrate what is and mourn what isn’t. You’re forced to make a choice … although there was really never a choice at all.

These days are too brief and filled with too much joy, too much love and far too much grace to be held captive to the shoulds. I’ll embrace today and pray for tomorrow, but as for yesterday – I’ll hold tight to the good and let the rest fall away.

When your heart is filled with the light of what is, there’s no room for the darkness of should.

I Can't Breathe

Right after my daughter was born, the nurse asked if I'd like to do skin-to-skin. I was surprised - when my son was born by c-section three years earlier, I hadn't been able to hold him until my surgery was completed. Jon's arms had welcomed him first; I had to content myself with stroking his soft cheek and letting his hand curl around my finger for the 20 minutes or so until I could hold him close. So when they asked me this time, I said yes immediately, thrilled that I would be the first to hold my baby after nine long months of waiting. They snuggled her on my chest, and Jon and I gazed at her in wonder. But as the haze of those first few moments began to clear, I realized how uncomfortable I was. More than uncomfortable, really - my blood pressure had bottomed out right after the spinal, causing intense nausea and dizziness. They had lowered my head to position it below my body to help some with the dizziness, but I still felt lightheaded. As I lay there, struggling to stay focused on the miracle of the moment, Ellie's weight began to feel as though it was crushing my chest. I closed my eyes and focused on trying to breathe, silently willing the surgeons to work faster. It seemed to be taking forever, and I was struggling to catch my breath. I knew that if I just spoke up, someone would help me - Jon or a nurse would lift Ellie off of me, and I'd be able to breathe freely again. But I didn't want that. I wanted her there, on me. Sure, she was suffocating me, but I'm a mom - HER mom. I could deal.

Until I couldn't, and I blurted out, "I can't breathe!"

No one took her away. The anesthesiologist positioned next to my head simply reached down and ever so slightly adjusted the way she was positioned, shifting her weight so the burden felt lighter. "Better?" he asked. "Much, thank you," I said gratefully, breathing in deeply once more.

A few weeks later, it was a Friday morning. Ellie wanted to nurse every 45 minutes and was refusing all my attempts to get her to sleep. Nathan was desperate for my attention, asking for me to sit with him, play with him, color with him. My anxiety levels were rising, the tears started falling. Is this what it was going to be like, life with two kids? I couldn't do it, couldn't manage it.  I can't breathe, I thought, casting my eyes around wildly for something, anything that would help me.

And then I caught sight of my keys. I buckled the kids into their carseats, gave Nathan the iPad and his headphones and drove. I drove and drove, until Ellie was sleeping soundly. I parked in a lot overlooking the lake and studied my children in the rearview mirror. Nathan, intent on watching the WonderPets, oblivious to my tears. Ellie, fast asleep, her fists curled against her cheeks. I stared out across the water in silence and felt the weight of the morning dissipate into the muggy August air. Just then, Nathan's head lifted; he caught my eye and smiled. "This is fun Mom, thanks!" My sweet, oblivious, forgiving boy. And just like that, I could breathe again.

Tonight, it was nothing and it was everything. It was a grouchy, teething baby; a wound-up chatterbox of a four year old; a frustrating work experience; family drama. Nothing overwhelming on its own ... or even in combination on a good day. But today was a bad one; today I was vulnerable. By the time my husband got home, he knew with one look into my eyes; I can't breathe, they said.

"Why don't you get out and go somewhere for awhile?" he suggested. And once one kid was in bed, I did just that. And before I even left the driveway, I could feel it. Shoulders loosening, relaxing.

I won't stay away long. A cup of coffee, a visit with an old friend. Just long enough to catch my breath.

Take Your Time

Jon knows that sometimes I struggle a little in my transition to being a (mostly) stay at home mom. I think he knows this because occasionally I text him things like "OMG WHEN ARE YOU COMING HOME; I'M ABOUT TO LOSE MY MIND" at 2 p.m. on a workday. I'm subtle that way. But he encourages me to take time for myself regularly, whether that's to meet friends for dinner or just to escape for a walk alone. And every time I go, he gives me a gift - he tells me, take your time. I love him so much for giving me those three words. And he means them, too. Never once have I gotten a "will you be home soon?" text from him. If I call or text him while I'm out (just to check in, of course), all he will say is that things are fine and for me to take my time.

I had no idea so much freedom could be found in such a short phrase. I wish I had claimed those words sooner. So, in the spirit of paying it forward, I offer the same words to you: take your time, mama.

I hope every mom will embrace it, but especially you new mamas. To the ones home fresh from the hospital with your first tiny little one, take your time. You don't have to know everything about babies right now ... or ever, really. You just have to know yours. So, slow down and get to know her. Memorize the way she smells and how perfectly she fits, nestled against your chest. Watch what she responds to, what soothes her and what agitates her. Don't miss it when yours is the only voice that she'll open her eyes and turn her head for. Marvel over her and take a minute to be downright proud that you made a person.

Get to know yourself as a mom, and your husband as a dad. Be patient - with baby, each other and yourself. Worry not about sleep training, self soothing or getting on a schedule. All of that can come later. In these moments, what matters is that you're becoming a mom. I say "becoming," because I don't think it's something that happens the moment your baby arrives; it's a process. It's a process that can be, simultaneously, the most wondrous and most frustrating thing you've ever experienced. You'll feel more than once like you're losing your mind ... you're not. You're losing your pride, your selfishness, your self-centeredness. You're going to emerge from this refinement a completely different person, stronger, fiercer, more loving and more capable than you ever knew. But going through that - whew. So take your time.

Understand that the moments of frustration and feeling overwhelmed are just that - moments. Though they don't feel like it, they are just as fleeting as the moments of bliss. Babyhood is the land of phases; nothing (good or bad) lasts forever. So take your time, and keep putting one tired foot in front of the other. You will leave the house again, you will sleep again, you will be a real, live human again. I promise.

And don't forget, in all of this, to take YOUR time, too. Listen to yourself carefully, and your body will tell you what it needs: a walk in the fresh air, a mindless wander through Target, a trip through the Starbucks drive thru, a shower, a nap. Take it, and don't feel guilty for it. Even just an hour on your own can bring you back rejuvenated and ready to mom again.

Remember that rushing through the day does not hasten its end. We can't will time to move forward, nor can we call it back again once it's gone. So, take your time. It's only yours to take once.

Which is Harder?

I was making idle chitchat with another mom the other day. I mentioned my recent switch from working full time to staying at home. Before I knew it, she asked the question that has launched a thousand mommy wars: "Which is harder?" She tossed it out casually, but it landed with a thud and rattled around in my brain. Which one is harder? Why not just ask me the solution to world peace or why good things happen to bad people? Both of those are less fraught conversations than this one.

Since we were at the park and conversing while keeping one eye on our children darting about, I kept it light - I shrugged and mumbled something about how it depends on the day and then laughed. She nodded and laughed too, and that was that.

But it got me thinking. Not so much about which one is harder, but about why she asked the question in the first place and why I didn't want to buy into that contest. So, I asked some friends to describe motherhood in one word. I heard from working moms and stay at home moms. I heard from moms of one kid and moms of several.

They gave me words like Paranoia. Exhausting. Marathon. Challenging. Sleepless. Amazing. Blessing. Gift. Love. Busy. Humorous. Humbling.

But you know what word I didn't hear, from anyone? Easy.

Motherhood is freaking hard, and you feel the weight of it every single day. That's okay. No one gets into motherhood because it seems easy. It is physically taxing, mentally draining, emotionally destabilizing. It's sleepless nights and endless days. And poop. Lots of poop.

Is it fulfilling? Without a doubt. Parenting is the most profound, magical, soul-stirring thing I've ever been a part of. I love my children more than I ever thought I could love anything, and my drive to protect them is so fierce it almost scares me sometimes. But parenting also absolutely kicks my tail, wears me down and keeps me humble.

I think we maintain this myth of "working moms/stay at home moms have it harder," because it's easier than admitting the truth: it's all hard. Leaving my son at daycare for the first time? One of the hardest things I've ever done. Balancing taking care of a baby who eats every two hours (still!) with keeping her big brother engaged and entertained, while also keeping up with the cooking, cleaning and laundry? Also one of the hardest things I've ever done.

Every mama is struggling and fighting and trying her hardest every day not to be swallowed alive by this monumental privilege we've been given. Knowing that, let's do everything we can to make each other's lives easier.

What does that look like? Here's an example from my life. Last weekend Jon went on an overnight trip to Memphis to catch the Grizzlies game. It was the first time I would be on my own with the kids for 24+hours straight, and I was nervous. I said as much to my friend Michal.

Now, Michal's husband is a pharmacist, so she regularly has 12-, 13-, 14-hour stints wrangling her two boys on her own. She knows hard. But she didn't play the comparison card; she played the kindness card instead. She didn't brush me off and tell me it was no big deal/just one night/I'd be fine. She said, "let's meet for dinner at Chik-fil-a Friday night, and the boys can wear themselves out playing together." (Her sons are buddies of Nathan's.) Then, she turned around and invited me to a preschool open house on Saturday morning, complete with bounce houses and giant slides, for more boyish fun. And when Nathan was in full on meltdown mode when it was time to leave and I was trying to wrestle him into his shoes, she took Ellie and got her buckled into the stroller and helped me out the door.

That's what we need to do for each other, y'all. You don't get to tell someone else what hard looks like. She tells you what it looks like in her world, that day, that hour. And you find a way to help make it less so. You do this over and over, and you allow your friends to do this for you, too.

And then, when our daughters are grown, they'll know they can do anything. Not just because they're awesome and fierce (and they will be). But because they'll have learned, by our example, that they don't have to do it alone. They have each other to help make it easier.

Opting Out

This week was supposed to be my first week back at work from maternity leave. Instead, I quit last Thursday and, for the moment anyway, am living the life of a stay at home mom. For the record, this was never my plan. I liked the sense of accomplishment and independence that came with holding down a job and earning a paycheck. I liked having something tangible to reflect my hard work.

But things change. I changed. You see, I have a 12 week old daughter who likes to take her naps lying on my chest.  And I have a 3 year old son who likes to make up stories so that I can write them down and help draw the pictures to go with it. And to be honest, I’m tired of missing these things. Not just during the hours at work, but because I wasn’t my best when I came home from work either. Other people were getting the best of my attention, my creativity, my patience. My husband and my kids got what was left. And maybe that’s on me, for not balancing things better. For not having anything left in my tank when I came home at night. But in the end, something had to give, and it ended up being my career.

It’s not an easy choice, mind you. And it's not just the immediate challenges of learning to live on one income and changing my mindset, either. I've read all the articles and studies about the damage that “off-ramping” does to your career and long-term earning potential. I’ve heard the calls to “lean in” and how important it is for women to pursue leadership roles in the workplace. I understand that I may be torpedoing my career with my choice. That’s a tough pill to swallow sometimes, when it’s just me and my thoughts.

But then my son asks, “Mom, can we snuggle?” Or my daughter looks right in my eyes and gives me the biggest grin. And I know that it’s this that I want to lean into. Memorizing the smell of the top of my daughter’s head. The weight of my son’s hand as it clasps mine. It’s not big stuff around here. Some days, it’s mind-numbingly little stuff.  But it’s fleeting, ephemeral - the good and the bad stuff. And for me, in this season of life, I just want to be here for the stuff.