Shortly after our daughter was born, I wrote a post about how frustrating it was that everyone was already asking us about having another child. At the time, it was most frustrating because all we really wanted to do was revel in the beauty and joy of our new daughter and enjoy this new experience of being a “family.”

Now, as our daughter nears three years old, my husband and I are beginning the conversation about a second child and I am overrun by anxiety. Not because I don’t desperately want to have another baby. I do. Not because I don’t want our daughter to have a sibling, I do. And not because I’m not acutely aware of the financial implications of adding to our family will have. I am very aware that even for a dual income teacher-military household, our choice will have some strain associated with it.

Those choices are all worth it for me.

No, the anxiety I am feeling is knowing, full well, all the moments I’m going to be missing out on for our daughter, and our new baby, when I return to work. This week we are on vacation visiting my family in Michigan and I am watching my daughter explore, discover, grow, flourish, and shine.

All before my very eyes.

She has gotten taller, and I’ve been around to witness this.

She has started using a larger vocabulary and even putting together complex sentences, and I’ve been around to hear every bit of it.

She has started using some quirky facial expressions and recognizing when she is being humorous, and I’ve been able to enjoy all of it!

She has learned to fish, and I’ve watched that.

She “reads” books on her own and does a whole lot more playing independently, and I’ve been able to sit quietly in the corner and watch this.

When I return to work, I know there are other not-so-major milestones that I’m going to miss, that I won’t even know that I miss, for her and for any future sibling we may have. And I love my job, as I always say, I truly, deeply love my job. I guess there’s a growing part of me just wishing that taking time off for parenting in these early years was easier for us professional moms – that we could take the time we want and need to be with our littles in these early formative years and not feel 1) guilty 2) financially burdened 3) afraid that our professional careers are over.

As much as my kiddo is up past her bedtime this summer making wishes on the star-filled skies, I am wishing on those same stars that the path for career mommies could be just a little different.

 

 

“I will help you, my Mama.”

“Oh my dear girl, you already have. You already have.”

I was doing a simple task, just moving one piece of furniture to another spot. Not a heavy piece, but I had to put it down to get it around a corner. My two and half year old daughter comes over to me, grabs my hand and tugs me down to her level then places her other hand on my cheek and says with an amount of concern and love in her eyes I did not even know a toddler to be capable of: “I will help you, my mama.”

I squeezed her tiny little hand, wrapped my other hand around her tightly, hugged her and kissed the top of her tiny warm head and thought, “Oh my dear, you already have. You already have.” But I said, “thank you, my baby.”

As we maneuvered the object around the corner, now a little bit more cumbersome with the help of those tiny hands and watching out for those tiny feet, I was struck by all the ways this tiny human had, in fact, so truly already helped me.

My daughter has helped me remember to slow down. Rushing through every daily routine, or rushing out the door, or rushing through the grocery store even means we miss times together, times where she can ponder the world around her and her place in it.

My daughter has helped me realize that children love naturally but have to be taught to hate. Her best friends at daycare don’t all look like her. She hugs and plays and tumbles and laughs, shares meals and toys and nap spaces with all of them. Strangers that are bigger and also don’t look at all like her, she gives waves and smiles to equally. I can continue to teach her to love and understand and know that I too have the responsibility to NOT teach her to hate.

My daughter has helped me to take risks. She sometimes needs my hand to jump from a higher height. She sometimes needs me to pick her up and brush her off when she falls, but she always goes for it! Without knowing it, she has taught me that I must continue taking risks and “going for it” too.

My daughter has helped me see that being scared does not mean we are weak. The world is a sort of scary place and we have to find ways to navigate through it. She has us, her parents and her friends whom she adores, to help her make choices – to watch them and learn from them and us, and be less scared of new things, new places, new people, new experiences. Adults have this too, in our partners, our families and our peer groups – we can be scared and still forge ahead as long as we are there to support one another.

My daughter has helped me remember that naps are important – we all need a reset once in awhile. At the end of a busy work week, grading papers, making dinners, getting my workouts and marathon training sessions in, and spending quality time with my husband and my daughter, I’m exhausted. She might be the perfect child, who tells us when she is tired and ready for a nap, but what that has taught me is to recognize when a recharge is needed. And napping with her on a Sunday afternoon is magical too!

My daughter has helped me love more. I didn’t think my heart could hold as much love as I now know it is possible and my love for her has strengthened my love for her dad too – our marriage and our love is stronger in our shared love for her.

My daughter has helped me feel better about my body. I do not care that my “mommy body” doesn’t look like my 21-year-old body. I housed a human. I grew a tiny, amazing little girl inside of me and helped her enter this world. My body is strong and I am proud of it. This doesn’t mean I don’t work continuously to keep my body (and mind) healthy and strong – I do. My health and fitness is a priority. But I am not ashamed that I am still working on it, I am empowered by that. In many ways, I am more proud of my body now at 40 than I ever was when I was younger.

My daughter has helped me stay connected to the present. She hasn’t reached the point yet when she’s worried about something from yesterday. I hope that she never gets there.

My daughter has helped me enjoy the simple things in life. Bugs, the birds that fly overhead, the sound of a horn honking, the colors all around. She notices and loves them all, gets excited by new things – but not “big” things. In a world where technology and flash is so prevalent, I am glad that she reminds me of the beauty of sidewalk chalk and skipping.

My daughter has helped me laugh more. Toddler giggles. I think that about says it all. I think I have laughed more in the last two years than I had for an entire five years prior to her birth. I feel lighter. Happier. And yes, even younger. Laughter is definitely medicine for my soul and laughing alongside my daughter completes me.

My daughter has helped me remember my manners. I do not have to remind her to say please, thank you, excuse me, I’m sorry, or bless you. Wanting to be model of that good behavior, I think I’ve even become more courteous myself!

My daughter has helped me see clearly the only thing really is important in life.   Love. Really, simply put, this is all she really needs. If I can remember nothing else that she has helped me with, this is the best, the only lesson I need from her.

So when I looked at her little face concentrating so intently on helping her mama move a piece of furniture, brow furrowed and fingers curled tightly on the handle, and I thought of all of the ways this small, tiny, person had made such a big impact on my life already, had helped me so much already, there was a moment when I almost couldn’t breath. And then she smiled up at me and I smiled back and I knew, for the rest of my life, we would always be helping each other.

 

Check it out!

http://mobile.edweek.org/c.jsp?cid=25920011&item=http%3A%2F%2Fapi.edweek.org%2Fv1%2Fblog%2F163%2F%3Fuuid%3D56654

I am so proud of this mama, Regan Long, and this movement!  Paid Family Leave is essential for moms and babies, for families all around. I was “fortunate” enough to get some paid leave after I gave birth, via unplanned c-section no less, to our daughter.  My husband deployed within three weeks after the birth; I went back to work after three months, receiving only a percentage of my full time salary during that time.  He was gone for another 5 months.  It would have been IDEAL for us, if I could have stayed home with our daughter, avoided the incredibly hefty bill for daycare, and not have struggled daily to find a balance between being a new mom, a full-time working mom,  and a solo-parent during those 5 months.  Financially, that was not an option.  Every single day I dropped our daughter off at daycare, I had the urge to run back in and take her right back home with me.

I DID appreciate the break from mommy-duty.  I did LOVE going to back to work and sparking up my intellectual brain all over again (nursery rhymes really didn’t cut it for me).  But, even if I didn’t love and enjoy those perks, I had no choice.  And I know that I gave up a lot in going back to work. But again, we didn’t have the luxury of choice in the matter.

We were fortunate that our daughter attended a loving daycare where, I truly believe, she was loved as much during the day as she was with me at home (no kidding, she sort of still runs the show there!).  That did not make it easier, it just made it less painful to accept as a reality. I cringe to think of those parents who don’t even have access to that.  I cringe even more to learn of the moms who do not get nearly as much time off as I did, those that have to return to work as early as 10-weeks postpartum.

I am thrilled to see this movement gain momentum. I hope it continues to grow and gains the attention of those who are in positions to make changes to this policy.

Check the article out here, if you missed the link above: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/regan-long/the-movement-is-in-motion-paid-family-leave-in-the-united-states_b_8478418.html

In every scenario I imagined when I knew I was going to be a mother, none of them included me continuing to nurse our daughter past her first birthday. And yet, we are now on the precipice of her 2nd birthday and we are still breastfeeding.  While we are nursing much, much less often these days — morning, evening and sometimes, on a lucky Saturday, in the afternoon too.  There are times when I really relish these quiet moments.  I can smell her hair and hold her little fingers in my hands, and feel her curled up alongside me, almost matching her breathing to my own.  And then there are times when I have to go to the bathroom, or want to do another load of laundry before bed, or GO to bed, or take a shower and even these small moments of breastfeeding sort of feel like they are “in the way.”

So I’ve been thinking a lot about this lately as I really feel ready to wean at the 2 year mark, if she doesn’t do it first on her own.  And I know that I will miss so many of these moments even though I will also be a little relieved as well.  That, I feel, is the definition of ‘bittersweet’ to me.

I know that I will miss these moments.  When I read Amanda Metcalf’s piece, “7 Things You Miss About Breastfeeding When Its Over“, I immediately remembered instances for each of the seven.

Tonight mid-nursing session, which is only about 15-20 minutes in length these days, our little one pops off and said emphatically:

“Mama, mama!”

“Yes?” I replied.

“Hi!” And back down she went.

Yeah, I’ll miss these moments alright!

 

 

I have no idea how to even begin this post.  I am so overwhelmed with a heavy sadness that I am sure I do not have the eloquence to do the emotions justice, to honor the loss appropriately.  Yesterday I found out a friend I graduated from high school with passed away suddenly.  She was diagnosed with a rare form of cancer, which went undetected because she was asymptomatic until it was in the very late stages – she died about a week after the diagnosis.  She leaves behind four young children.  Our high school was not large, so her classmates are all heart-heavy right now.  Some of them (including my husband) attended school with her from kindergarten through high school, and even into college.  Sad doesn’t really even begin to describe how her friends, and I’m certain her family, are feeling.  I know it doesn’t capture my emotions right now, and I haven’t seen her in years.

But her smile is one that you simply cannot forget – ever.  And her laugh was one of the most genuine around.  And, I know that people say this all the time, but her’s was a personality that truly lit up every room she walked into.  The world is certainly a less bright place without her in it.

And while it is never easy to lose someone, there is no way to really “prepare” for it, I think this is hitting so hard because frankly there was simply so little time to grapple with the impending loss.

I recently read a post from a friend who discussed what she would do given she had a year left.  I went back to her blog to re-read her recent piece on loss because I was trying to wrap my brain around the myriad emotions I was facing.  I found her words in this earlier piece as cathartic as the one I went in search of.  It was capturing my own ruminations: what would I do?  When faced with this question, people often respond with “I can only imagine”.  But truthfully, the reality is, for me at least, that I cannot imagine.  I cannot imagine facing the truth that I had such a short amount of time left with my husband, my family, my friends, with my daughter.

More certainly, I cannot imagine what I would do if I was given only a week.  The lack of closure that exists with that limited time, the thought of that is simply devastating to me.  I have no words that can capture the sadness I feel for her, for her husband, her sisters, her parents and her children.  And yes, I feel a sadness for her.  A bright light has been turned out for her family and friends, there is no question there.  When discussing death, dying, and loss, people often believe that the emotional burden is on those of us that are left behind to feel that loss.  While that is true, in this instance, I have to imagine she acutely felt this loss as well, and so my sadness is for her.  I want to not imagine what she was feeling in those few days, how overwhelmed with joy she must have been at looking at the family and life she had built, and simultaneously overwhelmed with the very real, very heart wrenching sadness that she was not going to see the rest of it. I want to not imagine that. But instead I am sitting here purposely focusing my mind on those feelings, remembering not only our loss of her and the sadness we all are feeling, but honoring her loss as well.

I’m almost writing this post as a vent, but it’s not really something I’m upset about — just thinking about.  It all sort of stems from when I dropped off our daughter at daycare today and also that, before we left the house my husband, who had gotten her ready realized “oh, shoot, I think they wanted them to wear green today.”  Who knew…

“Why?” I asked, as I was gathering up the daughter, the bottles, my work bag, cell phone all while putting my shoes on (#workingmomproblems).

“Oh, it’s Earth Day, I think.”

We simply didn’t have time this morning to change her clothes into something green.  She had coughed up phlegm twice already and I’d changed my clothes once, and we were running late.  So, the cute little top her dad had put in her was going to have to suffice. After all, she looked more stylish than me at this point — the clothes I quickly changed into barely matched and I left the house feeling very “unpolished”. Such is my life these days, with a 16 month old. (#nomysocksdontmatch). Sigh.

I felt fine about this.  Well, I felt frumpy, but I also felt fine with her not being in green.

I noticed on the board at the daycare that this week was Spirit Week (for what end-game, I know not) and I made a mental note that Wednesday was crazy hair day (Charlotte has almost no hair still, but it’s always crazy) and Friday was crazy outfit day.  The hair we could do and I could probably pull together a crazy outfit.  Not that she, or any of the other toddlers in her room will even notice.  Ok, I can do that.  I still was feeling fine with the absence of green in my daughter’s outfit for the day.  I wasn’t putting too much stock in this whole toddler Spirit Week experience. We got there, didn’t we?  That’s a success in my book.

I was feeling fine until I walked back out to my car and noticed another mom getting out of her car. She was looking VERY polished. Her hair was pristine, she had on a cute matching outfit and adorable shoes (I had a pair of shoes break this week…so I’m sensitive to shoes). My frumpy-feeling grew.  So, too, did my guilt and angst about the “green” day when I noticed that she had with her two adorable children, both perfectly dressed – in green.  Her infant daughter had a green bow in her hair and matching green leggings.  Her preppy little son had an adorable and preppy little green polo with a long-sleeve white shirt underneath, the perfect preppy four year old.

I suddenly felt, not-so-fine.

Here’s the thing.  I think this is where the guilt/mom-shaming/”I’m not enough” stems from. It’s things like this. Why have a spirit week for toddlers?  They ALWAYS have spirit.  They are always excited about things.  It doesn’t matter to them if everyone wears green.  BUT it does matter to me that I am not together enough to put my kid into something green.  I’ve spent the morning feeling guilty that my kid isn’t wearing green today.  And, that guilt also makes me feel more frumpy and even less together.

Then an interesting thing happened.  I had a conversation with two other moms, about their kids and their morning and their questions.  For one of the moms, I had no advice.  All I could do – and did do – was listen and understand that I too, would be in a space of craziness like hers some morning in the near future.  For the other mom, I did have advice based on having gone through some things she was up against in the not-to-distant past.  I realized once again, through these two conversations – that we are all in this together.  That totally put-together mom was having a great morning.  I was not.  I should be high-fiving HER instead of feeling badly about myself.

I realized that there will be days for me – and for all moms – where we feel like we’ve got it all together.  There will likely be more days where we feel, like I did today, the exact opposite – frumpy, unpolished, not-at-all-put-together.  Some of this comes with the territory, for me at least, of working full-time outside of our home.  I love that I am able to be a mom and have a career, but I have to cut myself some slack and realize it adds a little more to my plate. According to the U.S. Bureau of Labor and Statistics, 69.9% of mothers, with children under the age of 18, were working outside the home in 2013. I’m one of those and I’m pretty proud that, on most days, I get myself (fully dressed and with matching socks) out of the door, with all the things needed for my day, and get the kiddo off to daycare and myself to work – on time. I can’t imagine that all of these women feel like they have it all together, each and every day.  I can’t imagine why: Sleepless nights. Sick children. Laundry. Dishes.  AND, all the fun stuff too: Swim lessons, play dates, music class, walks to the park, play time.

We have a lot to do.  We can’t be all together all of the time.  We can fake it sometimes.  I think I have to fake it more often — it’s also easy to throw my hands up in despair and say “I have a toddler” as if that declaration makes it OK to stay in my pajama pants all weekend, not brush my hair and eat pizza for three meals a day. It doesn’t.  But it also doesn’t mean that I have to take on some weird shame (#downwithmomshaming) for the days, hours, weeks and minutes when I do not have it all together.

For now I will relish the days I don’t feel frumpy and have it all together and I will silently celebrate the moms around me I see on their own victorious days.

And, tomorrow? Tomorrow, my kid will have crazy hair.  Lucky for me, that’s a daily occurrence.

I’m struggling with something lately that I wouldn’t be struggling with if every single person I run into didn’t ask me/tell me the same things.  I’m struggling with our decision to have only one child.  I’m not struggling with it because I necessarily think I want more children, I’m struggling with it because everyone ELSE is struggling with it.

It goes something like this:

Stranger: “Oh, your baby is adorable”
Me: “Thank you!”
Stranger: “Is it a boy?”
Me: “No, girl, but yeah, it’s hard to tell at this age” (cringe, she IS wearing pink and has a bow in her hair, but I’m glad people don’t assume…)
Stranger: “Oh, look at those legs! Somebody is hungry” (or, “someone eats well” or “somebody likes to eat”)
Me: “Yeah, she doesn’t go hungry, that’s for sure!”
Stranger: “Is she your first?”
Me: “Yeah, she is, we are so in love with her!”
Stranger: “When are you going to have another?”
Me: (In my head: WTF?); Out loud: “Oh, we probably aren’t” or “Oh, I think she’s our one and only.”
Stranger: “Oh, you HAVE to have another one…”

Ok. Listen. I get how great siblings are. I do.  I have two amazing siblings – now that we are older they are my best friends. I adore them.  Growing up, I pretty much adored them too – I mean, when I didn’t want to kill them. But, we had a great childhood.  Loads of wonderful, warm, fun memories.  Simply wonderful.  Wouldn’t change it for the world.

But, we are having one kid.  I’m pretty sure we are just having this one kiddo.  I mean, for Pete’s Sake, for the longest time we weren’t even going to have one! Then some things happened, we grew up, we remembered we were in total love with one another and that we actually both wanted to have a child.  Our child.  Actually, I had a moment where I’d hoped we’d have twins – but that was a fleeting moment. With all the late nights, early mornings, diapers and breastfeeding and bottles, thinking about two at a time now makes my head spin!

I know that there are all sorts of things that can happen and that “surprise silbings” sometimes happen.  And I know there are folks who really are happy having three, four, seven and ten children.  But can’t we be happy with just one?  Can everyone be happy for us for just our one? Why is it that once you have one kid, everyone is in such a big hurry to make sure you have another one.  We have thought long and hard about this; we can afford one child.  We can afford to travel to and from our families in other states with one child. We can afford vacations with our one child. We can afford splurges on fun things with our one child.  We can afford to plan for college for our one child.  I’m not so sure that we could do that with more than one child.  I recognize that having siblings is a great thing and if our lives were different in a few ways (we lived in a place that costs a bit less to live, we had jobs that paid a bit more, we were just a wee bit younger) then perhaps, perhaps, I might even be thinking about this differently.  And I admit, I do already miss the smooshy-ness of my newborn and am already scared that she’s growing up too quickly and am already dreading the times when she doesn’t want to cuddle — and will that make me want to have another baby?  When all those moments finally pass?  Maybe.  Maybe I’ll find a friend who has a newborn and babysit to get my fix.  Maybe.

I just want to be happy with our one, beautiful, perfect, amazing little daughter and enjoy all the moments we have with her. I think people with one child have a whole lot to offer that one child and much like I believe that people who choose not to have children are not “missing” anything, that their lives are not incomplete because they don’t have kids, I feel like our decision to have one child in our life – one perfect little human – doesn’t mean we OR SHE – will miss out either.  Her parents love her, more than we can even put into words.  She is our everything.  One may be the loneliest number to some people, but there are three of us in our little family…and that, I hope, means none of us will be lonely at all!

Seriously, I think you’ll agree I’m on to something here:

About once a day I see something happen between a parent and a child or two children or some combination of parents and children and I wonder, when the time comes when we, as parents, are faced with this situation, what will we do? I would venture a guess that we’ll be making a lot of snap decisions, in the moment choices, and in some cases stumbling and fumbling over our words.

I’m not afraid of these moments, but I am interested in the fact that I could, perhaps, be more prepared for them. So, I was thinking, when the husband returns from this nasty-long deployment, we are going to have us a little chat about some of these things – these “what will we do” instances and see, if possible, we can come to an agreement on what we’ll do or how we’ll handle these sure-to-stump-us situations.

But then I thought: how can I possibly imagine all the “what ifs”? And, do I really want to? No. No, I don’t. I really do not want to sit around and wonder about all the things that might happen, could happen, probably will happen.  That will drive me insane because I could imagine us spending a whole lot of time on things that would NEVER happen.

So then I thought: obviously, some things are bound to happen.  They just do, right?  Kids don’t like to share.  Or start hitting. Or throw temper tantrums (I think I know how I’ll handle this one…but really, will I really, truly, just up and leave the store even if I really need that gallon of milk?!?). Or refuse to eat their dinners. Or cheat on a homework assignment. Or lie. Or. Or. Or. Kids will be kids.  Some of these things will not be “big” deals to deal with; what I mean is that we’ll probably be fine handling them on the fly.  But, some other stuff might have more lasting impacts and it would be so cool if we could identify what some of those things are and come to some sort of agreement on how we want to deal with them.  Instead of one of us making a decision that royally pisses the other one off but we can’t say anything until the kid goes to sleep and by then we’ve probably had a glass or two of wine and, well…you can see how that would go.

So…a little idea sprung to mind!

Some sort of Parent Prep Retreat.  Not a fluffy, goofy, get in touch with your feelings retreat.  But one where we hear from parents (maybe child psych experts, maybe just parents) about what types of situations might arise and then we, along with the other parents, discuss those and what we will do.

And we have our kids there with us.  So while we are doing all this “learning” and “preparing” they are off playing and all that fun stuff.  And we come together for meals, and cook together.  And maybe do some fun family activities, kiddo-centered. I don’t know — all kinds of fun stuff could be part of this.  And it’ll probably cost a pretty penny, but I think I’d sink the dough into it if it would give me some tools and strategies.

Maybe it’s a dumb idea, now that I’ve typed it all out I’m not so sure.  But maybe it’s a good one too.  If it’s a good one, and you run with it, just gimme a discount on registration, OK?  😉