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.

Captured

When Nathan started pre-K last fall, he would ask to take a picture before school almost every morning. Over and over, I brushed off his request. We were usually running late, and there are few things that agitate me more than being late. He never argued my answer, but his shoulders would slump forward as he climbed into his carseat. I'd feel a brief stab of guilt over his disappointment, but that always dissipated whenever we managed to pull in the school lot by 8:30 a.m. on the nose. One evening, I mentioned the every day picture request to Jon. My husband speaks, moves and acts slowly and deliberately. He is my opposite in almost every way, and while occasionally this makes me grind my teeth in frustration, most days I whisper a prayer of thanks that God helped me find this gentle, thoughtful soul. He's exactly what I need, and this time was no exception.

"Love, take the picture," he said. "Ten years from now, would you rather know that you were on time to pre-K every day or have a picture of Nathan from every single day?" My cheeks burned; I knew he was right, and I was mad at myself for once more letting my desire for promptness override enjoying the moment.

For eight months, I took pictures of Nathan whenever he requested them before school. It wasn't every day - some mornings were too rainy or too cold, and some were simply too grouchy. Eventually Ellie picked up on the fun, too - first demanding to be in the pictures, and then being the one to call for taking them as she bounded out the door. We were late to school far more than we were on time, but I realized actually being late didn't bother me nearly as much as the fear of being late did.

Jon was wrong about one thing, though: it didn't take 10 years. We are only a month removed from the end of pre-K, and I already tear up when I look at the 60-odd pictures that I took over the course of the school year.

A whole season of childhood, frozen in time.

Here's to learning how to put aside my Type-A, get it done quickly personality once in awhile so that I can see the world through their eyes. Because, truth be told, I've never seen anything more beautiful.

Because of Me

"Do you wish you'd never had me?" My fork stops in mid-air. My eyes dart to my left to meet your dad's; his arched eyebrows confirm I haven't misheard.

You sit across the table from me. Your plate of food is mostly untouched, as usual. Your eyes aren't sparkling with a joke, though, and you're not preparing to launch into yet another silly story. Instead, you gaze downward, where your fingers twist together in your lap. Your voice fades with the question until it's barely more than a whisper, as though you regret asking it the moment it's left your lips.

"What? Nathan, baby, why would you ask that?" There's panic in my voice, and I wonder if you can hear it. There are tears pricking my eyes, and I wonder if you can see them. What are you thinking, sweet boy? What have I done?

Your thin shoulders shrug, and at last you raise your big brown eyes to meet mine. They are sheepish as you mumble, "Well, I do talk too much sometimes."

Oh, baby. You do, of course. You talk so much that your food gets cold, and I have to heat your plate up mid-meal almost every night. You've been going non-stop during this very dinner; it's the reason your pasta is still untouched while your sister is plowing through her second helping. Your chatter is the background noise of my life: getting ready in the morning, on the way to school, on the way back home. I'm convinced the reason that Ellie barely talks at 20 months old is because she can't get a word in edgewise. You tell me everything and nothing; I know the plot line of every show you watch and whose name was on the board for misbehaving in class. You narrate everything you see and make up songs about the silliest of things. And questions ... so many questions. Your days are filled with endless queries, about everything from why the moon is in the sky during the day to why girls can't pee standing up. On a trip once, your big cousins decide to keep track of the number of questions you asked in a day. They gave up when they reached 107 before the end of breakfast.

Clearly, you're correct in this moment of self-analysis. How do you even know you talk too much, though? What sort of five year old has that kind of self-awareness? There's only one answer, and it's breaking me right in two to acknowledge it. Because of me. Because I snap at you to eat your dinner. Because I cut you off mid-story and tell you to get your shoes on; we're running late again. Because there's an edge to my reply when, for the 10th time in five minutes, you say "Hey Mom, can I tell you something?" You've internalized my frustration. You've catalogued my rolled eyes, heavy sighs and exasperated tone and come to one conclusion: there's something wrong with you.

Yes, this is all my fault, and in more ways than one. The irony is not lost on me; you certainly didn't get your loquacious nature from your father, after all. You are your daddy in nearly every way, but your non-stop chatter, well, that gift comes from me. There's a pain settling like a boulder in my gut. You are sad, because of me. You feel like we regret you, because you're like me. Oh, Nathan. Nothing could be further from the truth. You're the best thing I've ever done. Watching you do you - it will be one of the simplest and greatest joys of my life. I must fix this. How do I fix this? 

I clear my throat, as though I expect that to dislodge the pit in my stomach. You're watching me, waiting for me to make it all better, but - for once - I'm at a loss for words. I hesitate, searching for an epiphany that doesn't come. At last, I decide on honesty, and a confession.

"Yes baby, you do talk too much sometimes. But do you want to know a secret?"

Your eyes light up. You love secrets.

"I do, too, buddy. I'm the reason you talk so much, you know - you got that from me. Just like you got those beautiful brown eyes from your dad. I talk more than I should, especially when I'm nervous. I probably wear people out with all my words.

That's why I could never regret you though, why dad could never regret you: you belong to us. You are part of us, and we are a part of you. You are perfect, just the way God made you. We love you, all of you, just the way God made you."

I watch you take in my words. I pray for them, as they find their way to your mind and your heart. Believe me, I breathe. Slowly, you smile.

"You talk a lot, too?"

"Alllllll the time, buddy," your dad chimes in, giving you a knowing glance. Your smile becomes a giggle, and my sweet and silly boy is back again. I feel the tension leave my body, though the guilt remains. I will do better, I silently resolve. Never again will you question your value because of me. Oblivious to my inner turmoil, you pick up your fork and, at last, begin to eat.

After dinner, I catch you before you rocket out of the kitchen. Setting aside the dishtowel, I sink to my knees to give you an extra long hug and a kiss and tell you how much I love you.

"I really love you too, Mom." Maybe it's because you know I need it, but you linger in my arms; your face presses into my neck. You let me hold you, as though my hug can make up for the hurt. There's forgiveness in your embrace, and I let it make me whole.

At bedtime, Dad and I both snuggle in bed with you, a rare and special treat. You are lying between us, and you've pulled our hands to your chest and folded your own underneath them. I look at them sandwiched there: dad's, mine, yours. Your small hands, nearly hidden between ours, hold tight to each of us; the tie that binds. You are ours, sweet boy. You are us.

We could not love you more.

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.

Motherhood is More

This wasn't what I expected. I expected to feel tired. Really, really tired. But only for the first few months until the baby started sleeping through the night (bless me). I did not anticipate the bone deep exhaustion capable of stretching on for years and a sleep deficit so great I fear I'll never truly feel rested again. I didn't know about sleep regressions or consider all the lost nights to teething, sickness, big boy bed transitions, trips away from home and things that go bump in the night. Multiplied by each additional child.

I expected my body to change. I braced myself for softer, lower, stretched. And all of that came, plus eczema and new moles and different hair texture. I wasn't expecting to feel strong, but hefting babies then toddlers then preschoolers does have that small perk. On a related note, I wasn't expecting the back pain.

I expected to know what I was doing after the first child. I forgot that babies are people, each with a personality and likes, dislikes and preferences. I didn't remember that most siblings share very little in common, aside from a gene pool. I wasn't expecting having a second child to be so hard. I wasn't prepared for my tried-and-true soothing methods to fall flat, for my schedule to be useless. I forgot that we would still need to introduce ourselves to one another and find our own rhythm together. I didn't know how hard it would be to learn how to weave those two relationships - the one I had already established with my son and this fresh new one with my daughter - together.

I expected to have good days and bad ones. I had no idea that the good ones would be so good. Little pieces of brightness and heaven beyond anything I knew possible. I had no way of anticipating the darkness of the bad days. The wracking sobs of a mother who feels like she's failing. The bubbling anger and resentment when the patience runs out and the exhaustion overwhelms. The fear when your baby is sick or hurt.

I expected camaraderie. I wasn't the first in my group of friends to have a baby, nor the last. I thought it would be a lovefest of swapped advice and playdates. I didn't expect to feel lonely. Despite a husband who is my partner in every sense of the word and a network of supportive family and friends, motherhood feels like an island sometimes.

I expected the love, although the depth, breadth and ferocity of it still takes my breath away. But it's the drive to protect them, a compulsion stronger even than the love, that I wasn't prepared for. It's the piece of motherhood that terrifies me the most, to be honest. Loosening my grip and letting go a little bit at a time, so they get to live their own lives instead of in the shadows of mine. Understanding that they'll push against my love and protection every step of the way, carving out their own paths. Anticipating how much that will hurt me, to have them bristle at my touch and roll their eyes at my loving words. Knowing that I'll spend the rest of my life hovering on the sidelines, stopping myself from intervening every time I see a risk they don't.

I expected the love, I just didn't know how much it could hurt or what it would cost me. It is brutal, exquisite and bankrupting, this mother's love.

This isn't what I expected. It's more difficult, more exhausting, more beautiful. Simply put, motherhood is more.

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.

Sleep Training 101

There are a ton of baby milestones to get excited about - the first smile, first "ma-ma," first steps. But for sleep-deprived parents, there is perhaps no milestone more longed for, more hoped for, more greeted with prayers of thanksgiving and shouts of praise than the hallowed Sleeping Through the Night. When your baby is eating every three hours (meaning you're sleeping two hours at a time, max), you long for this milestone with every fiber of your being. It's reinforced by almost everyone around you, too - "Just wait until she starts sleeping through the night," they say. "It'll get so much easier." Well, maybe all those other people have magical milestone children, who, upon sleeping through the night, continue sleeping through the night, every night, forever. Or maybe they just don't have the heart to deliver the knockout blow when you're already reeling. But here's the deal. I'm four years and two kids into this whole parenting thing, so I'm going to give it to you straight: it doesn't matter when your child starts sleeping through the night. Your sleep is irrevocably ruined, my dear friend.

And before you stammer, "but, but SLEEP TRAINING, RIGHT?" understand that it's all a lie to get you to buy parenting books. It matters not what method you choose. You can cry it out, ferberize, co-sleep, rock to sleep, nurse to sleep ... pick your poison. The bottom line is, unless your sleep training plan is to outsource the P.M. hours and let someone else deal with the nighttime shenanigans, you are destined for nights of terrible sleep.

Not every night, mind you. There are nights when your little angel will sleep for 10, 11, 12 hours straight even. You won't, of course. You'll wake up every two hours to check her breathing, and you may even poke her (yes, you will actually POKE a sleeping baby) to make sure she's still alive. Why will you do this? Because you've been broken. You'll never sleep the same because you've been conditioned, through a series of terrible nights of sleep, to expect the worst.

Case in point, here's how an actual recent night unfolded at our house. Let me set the scene: We had been out to dinner that night, so we were later getting the kids in bed than usual. Normally both are asleep by 8 or so, but on this night it was 9. Ellie was coming off being sick for two weeks with croup - she didn't eat well while sick, so she'd been an insatiable hunger monster the past couple of days. I had some work to do, so it was about midnight when I crawled into bed. It's a night during the week, which means I'm in charge of nighttime wakeups (the scourge of being the non-breadwinner), since Jon needs to be functional at work. Here's how the rest of the night unfolded, no exaggeration:

12:02 a.m.: I crawl in bed, pull up the covers and immediately fall asleep. 12:24 a.m.: Ellie wakes up crying. I go in her room, give her a pacifier, she rolls over and goes back to sleep. I get back in bed. 12:44 a.m.: More Ellie crying. More pacifying. More sleeping. 1:02 a.m.: More Ellie crying. Pacifier isn't cutting it; she wants to eat. Feed her the bottle I pumped at midnight. She passes out as soon as she's done, and I am back in bed by 1:15. 2:01 a.m.: More Ellie crying. In an effort to actually get some sleep. I just put her in bed with me. Yes, I swore I would never co-sleep. Stuff happens with second kids. She grins in victory, curls up against me and we both fall asleep immediately. 2:47 a.m.: Nathan comes in and needs to go potty. Jon tries to take him, but Nathan wants mama. I can see we're on the verge of a fit being pitched - and the baby is asleep so we avoid fit pitching at all costs - so I get up and take him, and then go back to bed. 4:33 a.m.: Ellie wakes up, hungry again. I try to nurse her, but she's not having it. Nothing like a pre-dawn nursing strike to keep the fun rolling. I wake up Jon, give him the screaming baby and go to pump. 5:37 a.m.: Ellie is fed and back asleep in her crib and I'm back in bed. 6:32 a.m.: Nathan is up for the day, which means I'm up for the day.

Now, this is not every night. That example is actually the exception, rather than the rule. But dang it if it doesn't happen just often enough to ensure that I cannot ever enjoy a full night's sleep again. Sometimes it's teething or sickness. Sometimes it's a growth spurt or a loud thunderstorm. Or it's the second Thursday after the first Tuesday, or you dared to utter the phrase "I'm so tired!" within earshot of your child(ren). My little blessings have conditioned me to anticipate being woken up at regular intervals throughout the night, and to actually panic a little when I realize I've slept for more than four consecutive hours.

Turns out, sleep training actually is quite effective ... for mamas.

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.