A Relaxing Shower for Mama

     I am a woman of few loves. Love is not a term that I throw around loosely. I reserve that term for a few, very special things in my life. Obviously, the two loves of my life, my husband and my son are at the very top of that short list. I love my family, I love to eat. I love music, I love Halloween. I love a good, sweet glass of wine.  You really need to be something special for me to say that particular four letter word to or about you. It is with certainty that I can say, I love a long, hot shower. There is nothing on Earth that I find more relaxing. I am an evening shower person. I like to wash the grime of the day off before I get into my clean sheets and cozy up for the night. I love water period, but a shower is like my own private waterfall and I look forward to it every night. Well, I used to.

     Showering as a mother is somewhat less beautiful and while I keep waiting for the magic to return, it just seems more and more elusive as each day passes. I can remember when Archer was tiny. In those days I struggled to get a shower because the minute that I would put him down in his sleeper, tucked cozily next to the shower door so that I could watch him the entire time, he would begin to scream bloody murder. He was cluster feeding at that time and there wasn't much else that he wanted to do. I told myself, when he gets a bit older it will be easier...

     Soon he could hold his head up on his own and I believed that my time had come. I would struggle getting his bouncer up the stairs and into the bathroom thinking, “how perfect! He is going to love this!” Spoiler alert, he didn't. I ended up showering with a screaming, yet bouncing infant losing his shit throughout the entire event. I would try singing to him, playing peek-a-boo through the foggy glass of my shower door. He wanted none of it. It broke my heart. “As soon as he can sit up on his own...” I told myself.

     Then the day came when Archer could sit up and play without support, so I would sit him on a padded mat on the floor by the shower. I lovingly placed toys of various types around him, boppy pillow behind his little bum and took a running leap into what I knew would be the best shower I had had in months.  It turns out however, that it consisted of a lot of leaping back out of the shower to pick up my baby who had tipped over only to lay on his face on the padded mat, which I was certain would immediately suffocate him. I told myself that as soon as Archer could roll over on his own, we would be in the clear.

     As it turns out, even babies who can roll themselves over don't love just laying on the floor while mommy is in the shower. I found this to also be true for babies who can crawl. I would suffer through my anything but relaxing shower, while my child sat in his pack in play in the bathroom two feet away, crying at the top of his lungs, promising myself that when he could walk, we would be set.

     Last week, with my husband again working late and Archer decidedly sure footed enough to handle himself in the bathroom we attempted yet another shower for mommy. I didn't want to deal with the hassle of carrying the pack n play up the stairs, and he screams the entire time that he is in there anyway, so I just set some of his toys on the floor by the shower and let him roam free. And do you know what? It was beautiful. He played with his toys, laughed at mommy (which I tried not to take too personally) and had a generally lovely time. Alleluia!!! The time had finally come! I walked with a bounce in my step for the rest of the evening and the following day. Finally, relaxing showers were going to be a part of my life again!

     The very next day, I felt that familiar excitement of looking forward to an evening shower after a long day. Again, I set Archer up with his own little play area so I could keep an eye on him and so that he wouldn't freak out from not being able to see me. With a song in my heart, I jumped into the shower. My soul soared as I felt the hot water cascade over my head and shoulders and I remembered why I looked so forward to this time all day. Unfortunately, my joy was astoundingly short lived. Even with my eyes closed, my ears picked up on a sound that sent a shard of terror ripping through my very soul. It was the low hum of my shower door slowly opening. All of the sudden, I was the star of my own personal horror movie. Immediately, I caught the door and closed it again, with only minimal water getting out. “Archer buddy, please leave the doors closed. Mommy's water is going to go everywhere.” I tried to keep my voice calm. I know if he hears even slight excitement in my words open mommy's shower door will become the new favorite game. “When the hell did he learn to do that?!” I wondered. But it was too late. The damage was done. He knew how to open that door and he had no intention of wasting this new skill.

     I adapted. It's what moms do. I began washing my hair with one foot perched up on the door to keep it closed. This only served to anger the small tyrant that lives inside of my sweet son. His beautiful little face turned red with rage and with both hands, a block in one and a dump truck in the other, he began banging on my beautiful glass shower doors with all of his tiny might. It is in moments like these that your mind briefly reflects on all of the times before you had kids when you saw parents giving in to a child's tantrums and you looked down your smug, childless nose at them. “Hmph... Not my kid.” Well yes actually, your kid. And you see yourself losing a battle of wills with a person one fifth your size. What can I say, his little heart was just more in it than mine was in that shampoo covered moment. So I finished my shower with the door open, trying desperately to keep as much water in with me as humanly possible. You know what, there is a reason why showers have doors. That water is tough to control with sheer will alone.

     Every so often he would lose interest briefly and walk away, like when he moved across the room to play with the toilet, something that is generally off limits.  It's amazing how quickly your standards tumble to the ground when you are covered in soap.  Or when he moved get my nursing bra, which he now wore like some type of fancy hat around the room. I would quickly yet quietly close the door but just like a velociraptor in Jurassic Park, his head would snap back and he would rush over to open it again.

     The last straw was when he slipped on all of the water laying on the tiled floor and began to scream, making me feel like the most irresponsible mother on Earth. I literally threw in the towel, declaring this the absolute worst shower of my life, which included the one right after giving birth when I was certain my intestines were going to fall out of my body and go right down the drain with my dignity.

     I don't know when or if I will ever enjoy a relaxing shower again in my life. I am already planning another attempt utilizing the pack n play, but if cooking dinner with him in there is any indication it's not looking too good. But I will never give up.

     And while I am the absolute happiest that I have ever been in my life, if I'm being totally honest there are little things that I do, in my more nostalgic moments, miss about my old life. Relaxing showers are high on my list. But in the spirit of grieving, here are the others, in no particular order.

Peeing in private

Eating with two hands

Eating when I am hungry

 

Eating slowly

Girls night out

Day naps

Binge watching television shows on Netflix... Actually, even just watching one episode of anything besides SpongeBob SquarePants in it's entirety in a single sitting

Boobs that are the same size in the evening as they were in the morning when I got dressed

Listening to loud music in the car

Earrings and necklaces

Doing my make-up without a small person hanging from my legs

Sleeping in on weekends

Conversations and cuddling with my husband

     In these moments, I remind myself that of what I already know to be true. That life with my son, while very different, is ten million times better than even the very best shower that one could ever enjoy and while I may miss many things from my old life, at the end of the day they don't hold a candle to my new one.

Bittersweet Weaning

     As we are quickly approaching my son's first birthday, I am overwhelmed with a variety of different emotions. I am excited for this important milestone in his life, incredibly grateful for the past year, which was hands down the best of my entire life and absolutely amazed at how fast this time has passed by. I literally blinked and my tiny infant boy is now a running, climbing monkey man. In addition, I can feel the familiar, nagging pangs of anxiety tugging softly at my heart. The day of weaning is upon us and I am simultaneously ready, mourning and scared to death.

     I guess I should start by stating the obvious, because it has been said to me so many times over the past month. Yes, I am aware that I don't have to wean him yet. No one is forcing me or holding a gun to my head. As much as I feel sad to put the experience of nursing my son behind me, I do feel like the time has come. At least for feedings during the day. I may still try to hold on to night nursing for a little bit longer...

     Thus far, preparing to wean has been bittersweet. A few weeks ago I cut down to one pumping session per day at work and while the extra money has been nice, timely blog posts have suffered. This week will be my last lugging a huge breast pump with me to work. Today is the last day that I am guaranteed a break in my workday so it is also the last that I will enjoy with a warm lunch eaten with a fork and knife. From now on it is back to protein shakes and meal replacement bars between sessions.

     Speaking of food, one of the perks of nursing that I will miss the most, besides my son's sweet face when he realizes that we are cuddling up for a meal, will be getting to eat the extra guilt free calories myself. That, I am sure I will shed a tear over the next time I am confronted with a box of doughnuts.

     Over the past few weeks, my thoughts have frequently drifted back to the early days of our breastfeeding adventure. The uncertainty, stress and terror of depending completely on your body to perform a totally new function that it has never attempted before.  One that you are not really certain is actually even working properly, to provide all of the sustenance necessary to allow the very survival your brand new baby. People think that because it is natural that means it must be easy. Well let me dispel this myth. Even for someone who had a relatively smooth transition from regular boob to working boob, that shit is far from easy.

     I will always remember the first time that I ever fed Archer, sitting in our hospital bed immediately after I had returned from the operating recovery room. I was so nervous and exhausted. I braced for a struggle, but to my delight, he latched on immediately and I remember thinking, “finally! Something with my body has worked properly for once.” I remember the feeling of pride and comfort that it gave me to nurse him; how connected I felt to this little person. It felt magical in those first precious moments.

     Unfortunately, real life soon followed and the first days and weeks of nursing felt slightly less magical. A few things stick out the most in my memory of those early days. The most prominent being the sheer physical pain of having these two huge boulders in my bra for the first time in my life. You wish for them for years and years and then you get them and bam, be careful what you wish for. In the early days it hurts to even look at your boobs, let alone attach a small person to them. And that person wants to be attached constantly early on. Constantly. Non-stop. And when you think they are done, they are back again. It is never ending in the beginning. Cluster feedings... Shoot me. Your nipples feel like they are going to either fold inside out or fall clean off and all this baby wants to do it mess with them. First the right, then the left. Then the right again. Okay, now the left. It is maddening. I would dread evenings because that is when Archer would cluster feed. I could feel that dread in the pit of my stomach as the sun fell low into the sky. He was coming for me... I just knew it.

     I believe that for those first four weeks, I had a child on my boob more often than not. Everyone in my family has seen my breasts so often that they are just bored with them now and I am surprised by how little I care. My poor mother has seen my boobs more than she has seen her own at this point. When you are cluster feeding for most of the day, it is just easier to leave them out.

     I tried using nursing covers but we never did get the hang of those. He thought it was fun to whip them around which really just creates more of a scene. Now instead of just seeing my boob you are also getting a rhythmic gymnastics show with it. Sometimes if he is in just the right mood, Archer will allow a light, gauzy blanket over us. When we can, I do try to nurse in private. We now know every fitting room and private parking spot in town. I've fed archer in restaurant booths, bathrooms, in the car and sitting on the beds of many a family member and friend.

     Early on you are so tired and overwhelmed with constantly feeding a newborn on demand that you don't even realize when you forget to put your boob away. Now I do it out of habit. Just over the Fourth of July weekend, I left a bedroom after nursing with my entire right side of my bra out, tank top pulled under the cup just waving in the breeze. I had made two plates before I finally noticed. I would like to say that I was mortified but honestly, I barely blinked. Who hasn't seen them at this point? At least my bra was on... My standards for modesty have suffered greatly over this past year.

     The majority of my clothes are equipped with a small clip on either side, to allow easy boob access. While they are a fabulous invention, I will be glad to hang them up for the last time. I look forward to wearing clothes because they look cute again rather than because I can get to my breasts easily in them.

     For the first few weeks, Archer used to fight with his hands the entire time that he ate. I must have repeated the phrase “move your hand” about a thousand times that first month. Holding him with my right arm, I would use my left arm to grab the offending hand and move it out of the way, after which he would simply place his other hand over my boob, trying to eat through it. I would drop the first hand to move the second only for him to bring his now freed arm back up to get in his way and so on and so forth. It was adorably frustrating. Unless it was three o'clock in the morning. Then it was just frustrating.

     I remember over the first few weeks after getting home from the hospital using an app on my phone to record the side that I used, the amount of time that Archer nursed and how many diapers he had that day, specifying if they were poop, pee or both. Looking back, if I had it to do over, I would skip the app. As if just getting a baby to latch on and stay isn't hard enough! Now fumble with your phone while doing it.

     When he was tiny he would gaze lovingly up at me while he ate. Now he likes to watch television. Commercials to be exact and if he hears one of his favorites he will stop eating to turn and watch, so I now position myself to give him a view of the boob tube. The other day while nursing, I raised a hand to my face to fix my hair and my little nursling pushed it out of his way. I had apparently blocked his view. If he is sleepy he performs acrobatics while eating. I am amazed at how far a nipple can stretch when given no other option. I've been bit countless times, which is as fun as it sounds. Those little teeth are so cute until they are chomping down on you.

     I remember my first time feeding Archer in public. We were at an outdoor concert and I walked to my car for some semi privacy. I was a nervous wreck. Was anyone going to see and come over to reprimand me? I fed my baby boy in the front seat of our car while my husband perched outside, just waiting for someone to look sideways.

     I will remember putting cabbage in my bra to help with engorgement, getting out of the shower while leaking like a faucet myself, walking around with one boob comically bigger than the other and my ongoing prayers that someday they will even back out. I will remember the frustrating feedings when he just wouldn't latch, or would latch but let go as soon as he started getting milk. I will remember trying every different type of hold that I had heard of and Googling over and over again, when does breastfeeding get easier?

     I will remember when it did finally start to get easy and how sweet it feels to leave a noisy, crowded room to share a private moment with my son. I love that there is this beautiful thing that only he and I share. I will forever remember nursing my son to sleep at night, cuddled up like a cocoon around him. I will always remember standing in public and feeling the cold fingertips of terror run down my spine as I feel my milk come in. Sitting in public, cheerfully minding my own business only to look down and realize that I have two huge wet spots on the front of my shirt.

     I will never forget when Archer was very small and the milk would startle him and he would shoot off of my boob, milk spraying everywhere like a sprinkler. I will remember my poor husband's face the first time that he ever saw this spectacle. A delicate mix of laughter, fear and regret.

     I remember when Archer couldn't find a boob that was right in front of him with both hands. Now he knows where to find them and he isn't shy about it. I have been asked by other women after they have spent time holding my son if he nurses. They always say that they could tell because he is pretty forward with boobs in general. I'm not sure if that is the nursing, or the Italian in him to be honest.

     Tonight will be the last night that I sneak downstairs after my son falls asleep to freeze my milk from the day. It will be the last time that I look into my freezer and admire my stash, every nursing mom's secret obsession.

     I will be sad to see this journey end. It has been one of the most rewarding acts of my life and I feel grateful that my body finally cooperated with something. I am nervous for the next chapter in our journey, but feel confident that if we can sort out nursing in a tiny bathroom stall in a dress without snaps, clips or flaps, then we can get through anything together. Even weaning.

Yo Ho, Yo Ho, a Pirate's Party for Archer

     “I promise I won't go nuts.” These are the words that will be engraved on my tombstone. The famous last words of any new mommy, planning her baby's first birthday party.

     I am the strange bird who actually really enjoys planning parties. I think I enjoy planning them even more than actually being at them. I just love the process. The planning, the preparation, it just get's me going. I love picking a theme, looking up ideas, buying and making decorations and then at long last seeing the final, completed product. I love looking back over the pictures and enjoying the event all over again later. On some level, I think it taps into the same creative vein as my passion for making Halloween costumes. There's just something about it that I find genuinely enjoyable.

     Archer is now approaching his first birthday. When we started thinking of a theme for his party, we considered a number of different options, but my husband, Jim was the one to throw out the winning idea. Pirates. Immediately it was perfect.

A. Pirates are awesome.

B. We both have a weird affinity for pirates so we already had a remarkable amount of pirate related memorabilia around the house just waiting for such an event.

C. The obviously delightful Arrrrcher word play.

     As soon as the theme was decided, I found myself saying those magical six words that always signal the start of a total and complete, and might I add very expensive ordeal in the Tesauro household. “I promise I won't go nuts.” And I kept my promise. For about two days...

     Everything I see is just too cute to pass up.

Toy swords for the kids? Yes.

Birthday cake that looks like it belongs on Cake Wars? Absolutely.

Ship sail centerpieces? Yes, please.

Mermaid statue, real sword, watermelon cut into a pirate ship? Yes, yes, yes.

     After placing my fourth Amazon order in a single day, I had my moment of clarity. “I've gone nuts.”

     The sad part is, I go into each purchase with absolutely frugal, non-nuts intentions. I set out to find party invitations that just get the job done. Let people know where and when the party is, period. No frills. It's just an invitation. It's going to end up in the garbage anyway. But then I open up the wonderful world of the internet and I find that literally, every adorable pirate themed invitation ever made is right there at my fingertips and I'm here to tell you, some of the options are pretty freaking adorable. Before I know it, I have a completely personalized proof waiting for a final edit before me and I am already too in love with it to pass it up.

     This story has repeated itself countless times since I decided a pirate themed party would be fun, easy and not crazy expensive. I was correct on the first two counts... Personally, I blame the internet. You can be sitting anywhere and think, “Wow. It would be cool to have a, blank.” You fill in the blank. Fill it in with absolutely anything your little heart desires and I assure you, you can find someone on the internet who can provide it. For a price...

     I had this same situation while designing Archer's Dr.Seuss themed nursery. I became obsessed with finding an orange fish identical to the one in the Cat in the Hat book to perch on the side of a fishbowl that I had painted. I looked everywhere. Absolutely everywhere and at some point, it became more than a fish. It became a mission. I needed that fish. I ended up searching for someone who could whittle a wooden fish for me and I will tell you, that shit is not cheap. Every time I look at that fish now, seated perfectly on the rim of it's bowl, I think, “Well, Archer had better cherish that fish forever. He had better take it to college with him and use it to decorate his dorm room. I hope his future wife loves it...”

     My mind is now floating with all things pirate. Treasure chests, skull and crossbones and parrots. My poor husband gets assigned random jobs like spray painting rocks or attaching small, clay flower pots, which are being re-purposed as crow's nests to thin, wooden poles. Thank God he is a good sport. I get away with just a confused look most of the time. He's a good man.

     It's an absolute addiction. Completely unhealthy. Finding the perfect pirate hook for Archer's treasure chest, is just such a rush. Crack has nothing on the ideal jolly roger flag. Hobby Lobby is my local dealer. I walk in to that store planning to get a five dollar bow and walk out with a cart just filled to the brim with various nautical crap. They need to put some kind of undercover officer in there to deter me from buying.

     But if I'm being honest, Amazon is by far my worst temptation. It's just too easy. I find myself sitting in my office pumping, just minding my own business and I think, “Hmmm. Pirate ship balloons would be cool.” A few clicks on my phone and bam, the Amazon fairy comes. Two huge, foil pirate ship balloons are waiting by my front door when I get home. It's like magic. Expensive, impulsive, crazy magic...

     I am currently the proud owner of ten pounds of fishnet, multiple buckets filled with gold rocks and a five foot pile of assorted red and black decorations taking up the floor of my home office, just waiting to be arranged and spring to piratey life. I have started obsessively checking the weather forecast, silently praying for a sunny party weekend.

     No one is above this phenomenon. I remember when my sister spent her summer searching for a donkey to rent for my nephew's birthday party. One of those ideas that I'm certain seemed better on paper. But I get it. As a matter of fact, a live parrot would be kind of cool... I have received party invitations that made me think that I was being invited to a gala for the Queen. It's all just a part of the fun.

     I always had themes for my birthday parties growing up. Unfortunately, being born on the fourth of July, the theme was often coordinated with red, white and blue, which I can't stand to this day. For years Jim and I threw a Fourth of July craw fish boil at our home and the only decorations that were absolutely prohibited were the red, white and blue ones.

     A few weeks ago, I found myself crawling around on the floor of my office painting a nine foot treasure map when I overheard a woman say, “when you have three kids, the theme of your birthday parties is birthday.” Out of nowhere, I felt slightly silly. My mind raced back over the past two months. The time, the money, the multiple Amazon boxes piled up outside of my home. Was I being dumb? Was this a silly use of time and funds? A waste of my already limited energies? Were we all just being ridiculous making our kid's birthday parties into events?  I thought of the multiple criticisms that I have heard lately, both to myself and toward other new mamas, primarily about how our children “aren't even going to remember this birthday party.” I remember being told that a friend just tries to get through such events. That I was making too big of a deal about it.

     And then I thought, “F you.” I'm not asking anyone else to foot the bill on this party and I'll pirate it out just as much as I damn well please. I think a lot of us mothers are sick to death of having to explain to everyone why we do what we do. How about this? It's not any of your damn, stinking business. If you want to come to the party, admire my excessively large ship sails and bring my kid a gift, then fabulous. If you don't, that's fine too. I didn't think I was ever going to get to throw a first birthday party for a baby of my own and this history of infertility causes me to want to really enjoy every single moment. I think it is really sad if your primary goal is to just get through the events of your life. No milestone or event is ever lost on me and there many other mothers out there who haven't dealt with infertility who still thrive on making every day special. So get the hell off of our backs about it. Stick some unGodly expensive cake in that trap and just shut the hell up. Arrrrrr!

Showering in the Milestones of Others

    
     Well, it's here. The open season for weddings and babies has arrived and everywhere you go, you can't swing a diaper bag without hitting some broad getting showered with gifts for some big event in her life. Showers are a beautiful thing. A gathering of the women who love you the very most, all coming together to celebrate a milestone in your life with tiny sandwiches and iced tea, games and presents. I'm at a point in my life where I really like attending showers. I enjoy seeing the decorations and eating chocolate dipped things. I love seeing my friends hit different milestones in their lives. But this point in my life was a long time coming...

     In what seems like a lifetime ago, before my husband and I were man and wife, we were Stacey and Jim. The amazing-still-just-dating couple. We dated for six long years before we finally got married. At that point in my life, I felt like if I had to attend another bridal shower for a couple who had been dating for all of a year and a half, I was going to shoot myself. Right in the head with one of the miniature artificial doves that were strewn all over every table.

     I was so happy for my friends, but it just felt like it was never going to be my turn and I wanted my turn so very badly. I felt stagnant. Like I was in a weird rut where I was happy, but definitely not moving forward in any meaningful way. Everybody else made it look so easy. They seemed to just drift through their life milestones effortlessly. Mine took so much freakin effort. And I was exhausted of trying to drag another person through life milestones with me. This concoction of various different emotions made for sort of a salty guest at showers. I was happy for my friends, but sort of bitterly so. It was weird. It took a lot of wine to get through some of those events.

     Baby showers are even harder and when you are actively trying to conceive, it seems like these joyous events occur weekly. During the two and a half years that I was trying to get pregnant, it felt like I was constantly either planning, shopping for or going to a baby shower for someone. It was continuous. To be clear, and every woman knows this... Showers under the very best circumstances are only minimally fun. They are more obligatory than anything else. It's fun seeing friends, but it sucks being stuck at a table with people you barely know making small talk for three hours. The games are cute, but to call them fun is sort of a stretch. Fun is drunk Monopoly with your closest group of friends at one o'clock in the morning, punchy and silly. Shower games are usually more like a pop quiz that doesn't really effect your grade. How well do you know this person, how well do you know their partner, how well can you complete a task? I place them somewhere between homework and a crossword puzzle played in the waiting room of a doctor's office while you are waiting forever for your turn. Except that there are prizes. Prizes are always fun.

     Watching gifts be opened is nice, but watching your own gift be opened is really the only fun part, although I personally find gift bingo with the chance to win a prize enjoyable. If the prize is wine that equals a huge jump on my personal fun meter. I believe this is largely everyone's experience with showers. It is something that we are all happy to do, to celebrate a friend's big life event, while not necessarily within the traditional bounds of fun per se.

     But when you are celebrating the life event of another person that you want more than life to celebrate for yourself, the sting is nearly unbearable. It doesn't matter how close you are to the guest of honor, it still hurts. In fact, I think the closer you are, the more it stings because it is an experience that you wish you could really share with that friend.

     I would walk through the baby isles at Target, printed registry in hand and my heart would feel so heavy that I didn't know if I could continue to carry it within my chest cavity. You know the routine. You want a gift that's big enough to cover the amount that you intend to spend, but small enough to carry gracefully and in a box so that it can be easily wrapped. The shower gift check list, if you will. I would touch the tiny baby blankets and I was always struck by how soft they were. Designed for the delicate, precious skin of a little one. I would tear up looking at tiny onesies and booties, silently praying for my chance. When is it going to be my turn?

     I spent my Saturdays eating tiny salads and playing games where I had to name baby items and guess their prices. I would joke about how little I knew of babies and their needed items. I prayed for showers at restaurants where I could order a glass of wine to help dull the pain. I tried to embrace the positives of being childless. But to be honest, by your mid 30's when you desperately want a child those positives feel pretty pathetic. Not so if they were your choice and you have made a conscious decision to refrain from reproducing. But when you are an unwilling participant, many of those positives feel very pretty empty. I can go out to clubs and bars at night... woo hoo. I end up spending the whole evening wishing that I was home in my jams instead of uncomfortable shoes and wearing pants, anyway. I can spend my money on myself. Yay. All I see that I want to buy are nursery decorations. We can travel. Yipee. I would love to show a child what an amazing world we live in and watch his face as he sees the ocean for the first time.

     I stuffed myself with bottle shaped cookies and rattle shaped cake pops and plastered a smile across my face. I tried to remind myself that my turn would come. But month after month, year after year, shower after shower my ability to stay positive waned significantly.

     I watched my friends as their bellies grew round and beautiful, full of life. I imagined what it must be like to feel a human being growing and thriving inside of you. What an amazing accomplishment that must be; how proud they must feel of their bodies. I sat at tables surrounded by other pregnant friends or friends who already had babies and felt like I had absolutely nothing to add to the conversation. It felt lonely. Sometimes someone would ask if I planned to have kids and over the years my answer changed from an excited “Absolutely! We are trying!” to a decidedly less excited “Yeah, we have been trying.” Once I caught on that that answer gave way to a flood of very personal questions and crappy advice I altered my answer to a vague “Someday,” but as the years ticked by I found myself lying, and bitterly snapping back with a sharp, “I don't know. We may just use our money to travel.” This was generally followed by a swig of wine and a conscious effort to hold back hot tears. Fortunately, having little to add on topic I was largely ignored in most conversations, which all surrounded pregnancy and babies. I left these showers feeling emptier and more depressed than when I arrived. It felt good to cry on the drive home.

     I think I enjoy showers so much now because I find such relief in being able to attend without them being such a trigger for sadness. Maybe that's selfish, but I'm at a point in my life now where I don't really care. I recognize that my feelings and my pain were valid and I look forward to celebrating the end of that phase in my life while I shower with gifts and celebrate others.

     I don't know why life milestones come so easily for some people, while others like me struggle so much. I often think back to that time in my life, however and it always crosses my mind as I am sitting at various baby and bridal showers now. I wonder who else in the room may be donning a plastered smile on her face and my heart breaks for her. I wish that I could tell her that she isn't as alone as she feels. That this time in her life is immensely difficult but that it will pass. That her turn will come and that because of her long wait, her own milestones will be that much sweeter. But it's difficult to tell a plastered smile from a real one and we women can be amazing actresses when we need to be, so she remains hidden in the crowd. So instead I secretly hope for as easy a day as possible for her and look forward to the day that the shower invitation in my mailbox is for her.

Rock a Bye Baby, in Mommy's Bed

 

     One of my very earliest memories of my life is not Christmas, or a birthday party, or my first day of school... It's peeing in my parent's bed. I remember it as clear as day.  I was around two years old and I was laying there between my parents, snug as a bug and happy as could be. Then suddenly, as if on fire, well more accurately as if just peed upon, they both jumped out of bed, leaving me laying there, groggy, confused and pretty damp.

     I loved sleeping in my parent's bed. I'm not sure what age I was when I was finally evicted, but I clearly remember sleeping in my baby sister's room in a sleeping bag on the floor when she was small enough to be in a crib, which would have made me four years old. After that, it was both my sister and myself tucked into sleeping bags on my parent's floor, then to my sister and I sharing my bed in my room until I was around the age of nine or ten as far as memory serves. Eventually I did sleep on my own, but to be honest, I've always hated it. I love watching and reading scary things and have always preferred a bed mate and a television on to help with my relentless nocturnal fears.

     I never pictured that I would co sleep with my child, however. Well, that's a lie. I always knew that if he came to me in the night, scared of a boogie man or worse, I could never turn him away. But I always assumed it would be a bridge that I would cross a few years down the road, once he could walk into the room on his own accord.

     Publicly, I know that the practice of co-sleeping is somewhat frowned upon, but I also know that it is a pretty widely used method of sleeping in actual life, especially for nursing mothers. So for the moment, I would like to pull back the veil of shame and share with you my family's journey from crib to co-op.

     Let me begin by saying that I am probably one of the more paranoid people that you will ever meet. I'm pretty much just under the mark to be diagnosable. I worry constantly about everything. Prior to having Archer, I worried that the hospital would give me the wrong baby. I planned to never have him out of my sight. It turns out however, that this is not even a little bit possible in the real world, but luckily my son came out looking like his father's identical twin so there was no mix up possible there. Still, when the nurses asked if I wanted him in the nursery or in my room overnight, I knew that I would get exactly zero rest if he was not by my side. Mama bear had already kicked in. So those first few nights in the hospital we room shared.

     By our first night at home, it already felt incredibly strange to have him in his own room even though his nursery is literally right off of our bedroom. It's about ten feet from our bed through a doorway to his crib, but it felt like a world away. I can remember feeling the most overwhelming anxiety when I placed him in his crib and walked out of the room that first night. It felt like my right arm had been removed and placed in another room of my home. I watched the monitor for most of that night, terrified that he would stop breathing and I wouldn't hear it.

     And so went our first few months as mommy and baby. Archer has never been a good sleeper but in his own crib, his sleep was practically nonexistent. We were up six to eight times per night in the early days and that was when feeding him and getting him back to sleep took forever. Back in the days when I was still recording feeding lengths on an app on my phone. New mom stuff... Am I right? Most of those nights are a blur in my memory of feeding, bouncing and walking Archer until he fell asleep, only to gingerly place him in his crib for him to wake up again ten minutes later.

     As a nursing mom, this was tough. Jim offered to help, but honestly, unless he had devised some sort of hose invention that could attach to both a baby and a boob, we were out of luck and I saw no reason for us both to be awake. So it was just me and my little guy, working the late shift together every night.

     Through it all, my fears continued. What if he cried and I didn't hear him, what if he got kidnapped during the night or every mother's worst fear, SIDS? I felt restless with worry during the brief and shining moments when he wasn't awake, so sleep still eluded me, even then.

     Something had to give but I didn't know what. Our room was too small to room share or to even get one of those cool off the bedside bassinets, so our options were to either have Archer in the bed in our room with us, or off in a crib in his nursery. At the time he just seemed too little to me to have in bed with us. I was terrified that one of us would roll over on him. I just couldn't bring myself to try co-sleeping. Eventually however, out of sheer exhaustion my walls began to crack. As with so many wars since the dawn of time, it began with an early morning surrender. Jim got out of bed for work everyday at 6:30, so after this feeding I began putting Archer in bed with me and we would finally get some much needed, glorious sleep. With my little lovie asleep next to me, I could finally relax and drift into actual sleep. It felt amazing.

     When Archer was almost three months old, we attended a family wedding in New Jersey. It was Archer's first trip and the sleep situation weighed heavily on my mind. We decided to take his Pack N Play with us so that he could sleep in it in the hotel room. Our bed there was huge. While my husband, who was best man in the wedding attended the rehearsal and a dinner following, my little buddy and I settled in for the night to relax.

     It was just me and my baby, away from home for the first time. It felt exciting yet slightly uncomfortable. Something about us being alone and out of our usual element made me feel slightly vulnerable. As is so often the case, nursing brought me as much comfort as I think it did Archer. It felt familiar and safe. As we lay there waiting for my husband to get back to the room, we practiced our newest skill of laying down while nursing and for the first time ever, this technique went beautifully culminating in my little lovie falling sound asleep on the large, king sized bed.

     I cuddled up with him and felt my entire body relax. For the first time, we co-slept for an entire night and it was the best night's sleep I had had since his birth.

     So that was it. I had a taste of co-sleeping and I liked it. A lot. I could finally relax, listening to his breath while I was sleeping and for the first time in months I was not anxious as night approached. Sleeping next to me, Archer didn't even need to cry to let me know that he was hungry. In fact, we both barely had to wake up at all for him to eat. Usually, we both fall back asleep mid meal, in fact.

     It was the first time that I woke up feeling well rested in the morning since he was born and ever since I have been unable to bring myself to banish Archer back to his crib. The thought has crossed my mind... Usually when I see the disapproving glances of other mothers or come across one of the absolutely gut-wrenching stories of when co sleeping goes wrong. I do know the safety concerns and as a result, I have been careful to follow the rules suggested for making co-sleeping as safe for Archer as possible.

     It has been suggested to me that maybe co-sleeping is more comforting to me than it is necessary for him. Maybe so, but Archer seems to be a pretty big fan of our set-up too. I think all men prefer sleeping close to their favorite food. I love when he opens his eyes, then sees me there, gives a little smile and drifts back off to sleep. I love when I feel his little arm in the dark reach for me to be sure that I'm still there, or feel him grab my shoulder, asking for a midnight snack. I think back to the years and tears that I spent waiting for him to get here, thinking the day would never come when I would hold him in my arms. I kiss his little head all night, just thanking God that he is here.

     I know the day will come soon enough when I will be up at night worrying because he is out driving around with his friends and I cherish this time when he is little. When he wants nothing more than to be curled up with his mama. I have suffered from frequent nightmares most of my life.  Now, they are primarily related to the scenes that are described to me at work on a daily basis. Nothing feels better than waking up from a brutal nightmare to curl up in my husband's strong arms. Nothing makes me feel safer. I love the idea that when Archer has a nightmare, he won't wake up in a dark room alone. He will wake up with his mom on one side and his father on the other, ready and willing for comfort and cuddle him.

     I plan to make a big deal of making him a big boy room with a big boy bed when the time is right, but I don't see me forcing him out of my room. I'm sure he will fly out of the nest on his own before he is a teenager. I have no worries there.

     Co-sleeping is definitely not right for everyone and that is okay. But it is the stuff of very sweet dreams for my little family.

Ovulation Predictor Kits... or Plastic Sticks of Despair that you Pee on

     I am a researcher. I look up everything. Anything that I wonder about, I look up. Often, this harmless curiosity inexplicably grows into a complete and total obsession.  Usually the topics are completely random and have no impact on my life. I just want to know. When I found out that this year the cicadas were coming, I obsessively looked up everything that I could about them. So much so, that if this social work thing ever falls through my plan B could be some sort of curator for a cicada exhibit in a museum. It's a behavior pattern that I have had since childhood and it has only gotten worse with age and the internet.

     At no point in my life was this pattern more apparent than when I was trying to conceive my son. I fixated on everything. I looked up everything and then I looked up more. I wanted to know every possible option that could give me an advantage over that bitch mother nature.

     Around the 6 month mark of trying to achieve pregnancy, I stumbled into the world of ovulation predictor kits. Satan's pee sticks. The most ambiguous, frustrating inventions that you will ever urinate on.

     I resisted the urge to dive into this rabbit hole for months. I knew that if I did give in, with my personality and tendencies toward utter fixation, it would likely get ugly fast. But after months of disappointment and no clear direction since I wasn't charting yet, I finally gave in and purchased my first ovulation predictor kit.

     One of the most interesting yet overwhelming parts of infertility is how much you learn about your body and the vast array of tools on the market designed to help women navigate their own reproductive systems. There are so many products out there to help you conceive that you wonder why you had to try so hard and for so long not to get pregnant. You start feeling like a fool for all of the money that you threw at birth control pills for all of those years. If I had some of that birth control money back I could buy some more sperm friendly lubricant and sticks to pee on...

     Quickly, I learned that my long standing fear of ovulation predictor kits was absolutely on point. These things are a riddle, wrapped in a puzzle, with a big middle finger drawn on them. They will make you crazy. The purpose of an ovulation predictor kit is exactly what it says, to predict when and if you will ovulate in a given month. This is far from an exact science, however. It is based off of the hormone levels in your urine. The hormones that are responsible for ovulation spike right before this event occurs. These kits are designed to indicate the level of these hormones in your urine to determine how close you are to this event. So, a few times per month, you find yourself peeing on a stick that looks exactly like a home pregnancy test, only to wait to see if a line appears indicating a hormone spike. If you see a light line, you have a small spike of hormones while a dark line reports a large spike in hormones. The problem is, hormones are fickle and ovulation tests even more so. Sometimes a light line indicates that hormones are rising OR falling, so you can test for 5 days in a row and only ever get a light line that eventually disappears while you are just standing around waiting to do the deed for the exact right moment which has now passed into worthless history for another month.

     Naturally, after using these madness inducing sticks for a few months, you begin to fixate and obsess over them. Seems reasonable, right? This is especially true if like me, you go months at a time without ever seeing a dark line, but have days and days in a row of a light line that is getting ever so slightly darker until boom, it's gone along with your sanity. So you run to your old friend, the internet. This is where the real fun starts. Here is where you learn the best part of all. Unlike with a home pregnancy test, which works best with your first morning urine, an ovulation test is actually the most accurate mid day. Ta da! Welcome to the world of peeing on a stick at work! Can life get any better?!

     For me, this involved running to the bathroom in between every therapy session to test between the hours of late morning and early afternoon, when your hormone levels are the most likely to spike. To say that this was awkward and miserable would be a gross understatement. Nothing is better than standing in your workplace bathroom trying to decipher the vague results on a tiny window on a piece of plastic that you just peed on while trying desperately to compare the subtle pink line in your indicator window with the mockingly bright example picture on the stupid box. Those smug little control lines, all dark and arrogant... F them...

     I researched everything that I could about these stupid sticks. When was the best time to test, what if you only ever got a light line, what was the success rate for women trying to conceive? I read countless reviews of which kit was the most accurate. I read blogs written by women who recommended buying these kits in bulk. They would buy them in packs of thirty, sixty, even more. I read about women who were testing ten times per day desperately trying to find a definitive answer as to whether or not they were ovulating. The best part is, even a dark line only indicates a hormone spike. That does not necessarily mean that you actually ovulated. You can get a hormone spike, only to have it not really take and no egg actually be released. You could ovulate later that month instead and not even know it because you stopped testing after the first spike. It was maddening.

     I saw chat rooms of women posting pictures of faint evaporation lines, just praying that someone would see a hormone spike somewhere in them.

     In most topics, the more I read the more progress I feel that I am making. I correct mistakes and learn other, better methods for moving forward. This was not the case with ovulation predictor kits. The more I read the more frustrated and overwhelmed I felt.

     Each kit comes with seven to eleven (depending on the brand) ovulation predictor sticks, wrapped in pink and one home pregnancy test, wrapped in purple. Positive thinking marketing at it's best... The only thing more depressing than a pile of ovulation predictor kits in your closet is the mound of unused pregnancy tests that you accumulate after months and months of using these kits without even the tiniest indication of success. For someone whose period was never even late, having a stack of home pregnancy tests fall on you every time you open your closet door is less than encouraging. It's like having a really mean spirited surprise party thrown for you every time you need a new roll of toilet paper. Surprise!!! You still don't need these!!! Have a tampon instead.

     Even with testing multiple times per day for weeks at a time, I very rarely ever saw an actual real positive on an ovulation predictor stick. It got to the point where I had myself convinced that I must not be ovulating. However, once I began charting I saw that this was not at all the case. I found these kits to be little more than a source of frustration for me. I used them for about seven months off and on, and I spent a small fortune on these kits but got little more than extra stress and a lighter wallet as a result. Maybe these kits work for some people, but you could never prove that by my experience.

     I tried to think of a positive experience that I had with these kits to end on, but I honestly couldn't think of a single one. I'm sure they have been helpful to someone, but that person is not me.  Now when I am in the store and I see one of these kits, I'm temped to buy it just for the satisfaction of setting it on fire in the parking lot. 

     I share this experience not to make an enemy out of the ovulation predictor kit companies, or to even discourage anyone else from using them. It's simply to encourage you to keep looking for the method that works for you. Maybe it will be these little sticks of despair that will lead you to your big fat positive, but if it's not, then that's okay. You will find what works for you. Just keep looking, keep researching and keep trying. And while you're at it, kick a predictor kit down the street for me!

Oh, A Pumping I Will Go

     I have a very dear friend who a few years ago made an absolutely horrible and very destructive life decision. This decision had a huge impact on his future and resulted in a number of serious consequences, the most obvious of which was a five to ten year prison sentence. Having known him well for years prior to this decision, I chose to remain friends with him after. My choice to remain a part of his life meant that our friendship would be reduced to letters, fifteen minute phone calls and long lines waiting for short visits at three different correctional facilities spread across our beautiful state of Pennsylvania. During my pregnancy, I continued frequent visits to his current home, SCI Pine Grove in Indiana, PA.

     Visiting an inmate is always a weird experience. The guards have always been very kind and welcoming to me and I noticed that the facilities themselves for the most part go out of their way to make visiting areas as unprisony as possible, while still minding safety and maintaining order. I believe that this is mostly for the children who visit parents and siblings there. I often saw and appreciated guards who would joke and act silly with young kids as they performed their drug screens and searches to make the experience a bit more pleasant and less scary for them. As a trauma therapist who has worked extensively with kids and adults who were traumatized as kids I always took note of and appreciated this extra effort on the corrections officer's part.

     Their efforts to make the visits as pleasant as possible were usually overshadowed however, by the general unpleasantness of being in a prison. The air itself becomes oppressive as you walk through the long corridor that connects the visitors center to the actual visiting room, which is located inside of the facility walls. Every step that you make, even as a visitor is carefully examined and you are immediately informed if you step one small foot over a policy line. With that and the experiences of walking through metal detectors and participating in drug scans, visits tend to be uncomfortable at best. For a pregnant person, this discomfort is multiplied. I can't count the number of times that I had to explain to people that it wasn't a big deal that my friend wouldn't be out by my due date because he wasn't any relation to the child that I was carrying.

     The drive from my home to Pine Grove takes exactly an hour and a half and as my pregnant belly became larger and my pee breaks more frequent and urgent, I could not imagine any way that the trip could possibly be more miserable. Suddenly, I needed to stop once each way for a bathroom break and then as the months ticked on, twice each way.  What was already a pain in the ass trip was now a pain in my straining bladder as well. By the time I was one month from my due date and stopped making the long drive to visits, I had learned every gas station and restaurant between here and Indiana.

     Not wanting to be so far from home so close to my due date, I took the month of June off from visiting. My plan had been to start again a few weeks after my son was born but it turned out, that after having Archer I couldn't pull myself away from him on my days off to make the long trip and I just didn't feel comfortable having him with me in that environment. So my visits, which had been so important before, quickly fell by the wayside. But my guilt of abandoning my dear friend eventually got the best of me and when Archer was about three months old I left him with my husband and packed my car for the tedious drive to Indiana.

     To visit a prison is usually pretty light packing. You aren't allowed to take anything with you into the prison, no purses, jackets, sweatshirts, not even your license into the actual visiting room. At Pine Grove you may carry your locker key and a small debit card that holds money for snacks only. Usually I would leave with just my license in my wallet for the trip. But not this time. Now, I was a nursing mommy and that meant breast pads, nursing bras and pumping equipment. At that point in nursing I was feeding Archer every two hours on the dot if not sooner. This meant that I would need to pump right before I went into the visiting room, visit for two or so hours, and then pump immediately after before my drive home. So that morning, bright and early, I walked my big butt and my little pump out to the car for a road trip.

     Anyone who has known me for any length of time, knows that I was late to my own birth and have never caught up since. Time management is not my strong suit. This does not play well for prison visits any more than it does in the outside world. In fact, it's worse. By the time I left my house, I had only given myself the time that I needed to physically drive to the prison. If I took the time necessary to stop on the way and actually go into a bathroom somewhere on my route, then it would put me past the sign in time for visits and I would be required to wait until after lunch and shift change to get in, which would in turn screw up my pumping schedule for the rest of the trip.

      I realized this when I was about halfway to Indiana. So, being the proverbial good sport that I am, I simply pulled off to the side of the road into what appeared to be the parking lot of a closed building and promptly set up my pump. Sitting there looking at these two intrusive funnels, I found myself making a disturbing discovery. Due to the very strict policies of the prison regarding attire during visits and the brisk weather that day, I was not wearing a shirt that was anywhere near pumping friendly. I had absolutely no entrance for easy access to where I needed to be.

     I felt my optimistic outlook for the day shrivel away with the last of my pride that I had left after having a baby and fueled by an overall sense of frustration I took a deep breath and as quickly as humanly possible, shimmied out of my shirt and into my pumping bra with my car facing the highway, just praying that everyone there was responsibly watching the road and not the naked lunatic pulled off to the side. Pump in place, I covered myself with a random blanket that I had stashed in the back seat since who knows when and put my car into drive preparing to pull back out onto the highway. I glanced in my rear view mirror to see a line of about ten cars sitting behind me waiting patiently. “Wtf?” I thought before realizing that the closed facility in which I was parked was actually a very open recycling plant. “Son of a...” With red cheeks and a working breast pump I pulled back out onto the highway, begging God that no one would hit me, sending these hard plastic funnels barreling completely through my chest cavity. I played the image over and over in my head of the poor police officer who would have to try and figure out that crash scene...

     I pumped the rest of the way to Indiana and ended up taking my pump off while parked under an obviously haunted bridge to avoid having to do so in the prison parking lot. I made sure to enjoy my visit knowing that it would be my last until Archer was weaned.

     On my way home, I pulled into a gas station and pumped in the bathroom like a respectable grown-up. True to my word, I haven't been back to visit my friend since. I feel guilty about this abandonment of my friend often but remind myself that Archer is my only priority now and I never need to feel a moment of guilt for that. I can say with confidence that my days of pumping in the car are definitely behind me.

     Becoming a mom alters your priorities in a way that you could never have predicted. Things that used to be important barely matter now. Sometimes there can be feelings of guilt associated with that, but I think that it is important for all of us mommies to stop beating ourselves up over things that at the end of the day, really don't matter. If you can look into your child's face and know that the choices that you made, regardless of how they turned out in the end, were what seemed like the best thing for them at the time, then you have done your job.

     And if you are a mommy who finds herself in the position of needing to pump in the car, I have three words for you... Button down shirt.

Chaos on the Changing Pad

     Boob, boom, clap. Boom, boom, clap. Boom, boom, clap...

     Ladies and gentleman! Welcome to the rumble to end all rumbles! Two titans of time out meet up in the ring to finally settle the score!

     In this corner, weighing in at 121 pounds that is still some baby weight so we will be patient with her and with two leaking boobs... The mother of all smack downs... She loves to hear the cheers, people... Mommy!

     And in this corner, weighing in at 22 pounds, the baby with the blue eyes that make all the girls swoon, the boy with the golden smile and a diaper full of poo... Archer!

     Ding, ding!

     It is the unnerving, unpredictable and often very messy dance of my people. The mommy/baby diaper change wrestling match and it is not for the faint of heart, or anyone wearing white...

     I still can't figure out how a child so small can be so freakishly strong. It's like he sneaks out of bed at night to lift free weights. I half expect to wake up one night to find him flipping a huge tire down the hallway. His tiny, yet meaty little arms and legs can absolutely overpower me regardless of how strong my will is to not have poop smeared all over my carpet.

     I can remember being at a music festival a month or so after Archer was born. Jim and I standing, proudly showing off our sweet little boy and enjoying the music and sun shine. My eyes drifted to a mother, sitting in the grass struggling to hold on to the foot of a small child who was naked from the waist down crawling away from her while she attempted a diaper change. I knew I was staring. Looking for way to long to be polite but I was amazed. I couldn't look away. What the hell was going on here?! I was trying to make sense of what I was seeing before me when she looked up at me and apologized for the scene. “Oh no,” I quickly replied. “No need to apologize. I feel like I am looking into my future.” She glanced over at my tiny newborn, sitting quietly in my husband's arms, then gave me a knowing smile and I felt a cold shiver run up my spine despite the warm August air.

     Ever since that day, that terrifying scene has been playing off and on in the back of my mind. I prayed that Archer would be that rare baby who hates a dirty diaper more than a diaper change. I often wondered when this hellscape phase of diaper changes would begin for me. The day when I would finally have to pay the piper. It seems like around 6 months old my little guy first realized that the 30 seconds or so that it takes me to change his diaper was just too long for him to be so bored, but at that point I was mostly just avoiding getting kicked. He also discovered his pee bug, which added an additional challenge to the mix that I had not anticipated.

     The real fun was yet to begin. As soon as he learned how to roll over consistently it was game on. All of the sudden this sweet little baby turned into the Hulk every time the yellow line on his diaper turned green indicating that it was time for a change.

     Ironically, this was also around the same time that he started eating real food. Ever since, his poops have gone from sweet, nearly odorless yellow baby poo to diapers that look like an adult did his business in them. It is nature's cruel joke that real poops coincide with diaper wrestling matches.

     When Jim and I are together, we can work like a team and while still remarkably challenging, a change without smearing human feces around the house is totally doable. But it's a special kind of terror when you look into a diaper and see poo brimming to the top and know that you are going to have to face this disaster alone.

     I usually start by talking to Archer, letting him know that a diaper change is needed and letting him see the clean diaper and wipes. In my mind, I feel like we should all be on the same page now. Nope. Not at all.

     I hold my baby boy up by his feet, in an attempt to clean him and he counters me with an impressive display of core strength as he twists his entire body around to face the floor, leaving us playing a terrifyingly high stakes game of shit covered wheelbarrow. With a panic stricken heart, I struggle to keep my wits about me as I try to quickly but effectively clean that tiny, absolutely adorable butt and wiener in mid air before he decides to let gravity win. It's a pretty balanced struggle of at once trying to overpower him while not popping any of his little limbs off in the process and let me tell you, sometimes it is difficult to maintain that balance.

     The diaper changing process consists of flipping him on his back while taking a few swipes with a wipe to which he screams bloody murder and rolls over and crawls away, to which I flip him back over and repeat the process, about five or six times. I am generally a ball of sweat and he is usually into a full meltdown by the third pass.

     I do usually remember to get a few wipes out of the pack but nothing is worse than fighting to hold a poopy, hostile butt up with one hand and struggling with a finicky pack of wipes with the other. Wipes that get stuck in the pack are the bane of my existence. If Archer's first phrase turns out to be, “son of a bitch...” I will take full responsibility.

     I toss the dirty diaper filled with soiled wipes aside, which starts the next game, try to get the dirty diaper filled with poop and dirty wipes to throw around. Regardless of how far away I throw the old diaper, my son uses his go go gadget arms to reach it with ninja speed and precision.

     The switch to a clean diaper must be fast. All time is precious. Diaper, diaper... A look of unbridled horror creeps over my face and spills across my soul. I see the clean diaper. Still perfectly folded up, fresh from the pack. Rookie mistake. Amateur... I silently berate myself for such a stupid error.

     I give in and let his newly cleaned bum touch the floor. With this, Archer is off, naked butt and unholstered pee bug going rogue. As fast as I can, I use both hands to open the clean diaper while silently praying that he chooses to just hold his pee in until I can catch him again. Chasing a naked baby is all giggles on both sides, but carrying a kicking, screaming, flailing naked baby back over to the changing pad is significantly less fun.

     I've tried toys to distract him, I've tried diapering him while he is standing up. Surprisingly, it can be done, but it's tough to get a secure diaper that way and you risk a literal shit show later when that half assed diaper job comes back to bite you. In the long run it's worth the extra fight to get that sucker on right. I followed the suggestions online. I try to include him in the decision and the process. I've tried letting him hold a clean diaper, but Archer likes to bite them and I am afraid of him eating a diaper.  Making him organic baby food then letting him eat disposable diapers as a snack seems nuts.  Same situation with him holding the package of wipes. He chews through the plastic which is less than ideal.

     I've recently tried holding him down with my feet which was traumatic for us both. I've tried songs, funny noises (which sometimes do work) and I had been giving him a small box lid to hold which worked off and on until he started eating parts of it.

     I do get a slight advantage however, when one of the commercials that Archer likes comes on the television and for a brief, shining moment it commands his full attention. Usually the Blue Bunny ice cream commercial, any drug or lawyer commercial or a handful of others that have songs that catch his attention all play in my favor. With shaking hands and excitement built up in my chest, I think “This is it! This is my chance!” Then, with the pressured precision of a surgeon I quickly open each side tab to secure the diaper around him.

     The only risk here is a shaky hand slipping and losing grip on a diaper tab. If it snaps him, the battle is back on full force and he. Is. Pissed.

     I win this battle. When the diaper change is over, I let my little warrior stand up before I squeeze him up and kiss his little cheeks. We call a truce for the time being. Until the next time that the stench of poo fills the room and I tackle my little man for a rematch. I continue to research techniques that could tip the scale in my favor. Recently however, I came across a line that stopped me dead in my tracks. “Toddlers like to play with their own poop.”

     So, you know... I've got that to look forward to...

Milestones and Mamas

      My son hit a milestone this weekend and it was a biggie. He took his first four steps without holding onto anything for balance.  These blessed steps came between our front door and the couch and I was the one in the right place at the right time to witness them. I squealed, clapped and celebrated to the point where I scared him and made him cry but all in all it was a perfect moment. While I have missed seeing a few milestones, thus far I have been lucky with the big ones and for that I am very grateful.

 

     There have been milestones that I have missed however. I missed his first time in a jumper, missed the first time he fed himself a bottle, the day he learned to open drawers and cabinets and the list goes on. 

 

     As a mom who works outside of the home, I had assumed I would miss many of his firsts. I discussed this fear with fellow working moms and a few times was given the advice to tell my babysitter the rule. I learned that in a lot of families, if mom doesn't witness a milestone, then it didn't happen. I'll admit, I was intrigued by this concept and even considered utilizing this rule with my own mother, who would be watching Archer when I returned to work after my short, 5 week maternity leave. 

 

     I grieved missing his milestones before they even happened. I couldn't imagine not seeing him feed himself for the first time, or hearing his first word with my own ears. I contemplated asking my mother to protect me from the disappointment of missing these firsts by pretending they didn't happen. But as I watched Archer grow and learn I decided that I was going to break this rule that had been shared with me by my concerned friends because at the end of the day, his milestones are his and the truth is, they aren't and shouldn't be about me.

 

     I guess my initial issue with this rule came from how obsessive I am about his baby book. He is my first and likely only child. His baby book is meticulous. It is accurate to the minute. That shit is on point. It would make me crazy if I had a milestone recorded as a few days later than it actually happened. If he masters a new skill on the 8th and doesn't get credit for it until the 9^th, what's the problem? Well, for me, it's a problem. It's a question of accuracy and that will not stand. Not in my boy's baby book. Not to mention, I feel like it takes something away from his achievement. It may be small but it's a huge difference in what it means for him. It's unfair to ask him to hold back in his life simply because I'm not ready. 

 

     I'm not a parent who thinks that every kid should get a trophy. I think healthy competition is good and that in every game there should be a gracious winner and a dignified loser. But each of Archer's accomplishments, I want to be his own. I want them to be a celebration of him and the reality is, that celebration should occur with or without me looking on. 

 

     The clinician in me is always looking for the motivation behind the action. In this case, I believe the motivation behind this rule is simply guilt. I think that in a lot of ways this method is a means of working through and processing the guilt that we working moms feel everyday for not being able to be physically present as much as we would like. It's a way for us to tell ourselves that we were there, even if in reality we weren't. It's a way of rewriting the parts of our future and history that we already know we aren't going to like. But I think that we need to remember that this, like almost every other part of motherhood besides Mother's Day, is not about us or working through our own personal baggage. That is not the role of a mother. 

 

     I worry that this type of practice is a slippery slope to being the kind of parent who threatens to leave a graduation party if their ex shows up. The one who wears white to her kid's wedding. Guess what princess, it's not your day. Suck it up and pull it together because today is not about you. The biggest role of a mother is putting your child first. This is not always possible but should always be the default setting of a parent. I'm not talking about spoiling a child, but allowing them to be the star of their own childhood, which every child deserves to be. The world will knock them down soon enough. That's not your job. Your job is to pick them up when they fall, and be their loudest cheerleader in the crowd. 

 

     My intention is not to sound harsh or to offend anyone who does follow this rule. Believe me, I understand the pull here. It sucks to miss things. Especially big things. But I think that through this practice, we miss the bigger picture and in turn set an unhealthy standard in the ongoing mother, child relationship. The truth is, as my son lives his life, none of his life milestones should be about me. His birthdays won't be about me. His achievements in school or sports won't be about me. His prom won't be about me. His graduation won't be about me. His wedding won't be about me. None of these things will be about me and for good reason. I have lived my own life milestones already. I have had my moments in the spotlight. These are his achievements. And while I fully intend to be present and encouraging to him through each and every one of these life events, they are his, not mine. I look forward to him telling me about his day in school when he learned a new skill or got an A on a test. I am thrilled to be a silent (or clapping and squealing) witness to them all, but they are his. And in the circumstance where I miss one and am simply given the play by play after, I refuse to take an ounce of that joy away from him by making him feel like I should have been made a bigger part of it. It is his time to shine. 

 

     As hard as it is to see Archer growing and learning often without me, it's also really cool to know that he is growing and learning. He is this whole new person on this planet, discovering and interacting with it for the very first time ever. It is his journey and who am I to attempt to manipulate that journey to fit into my schedule? I'm the frame to his picture, the cheerleader to his game... His one and only mother. And that alone is the biggest honor of my life.