18 posts tagged “motherhood”

I have to admit that I've been lurking much more than I have actually been writing. I haven't stuck to my resolution to write a little every day. It's been far too easy to let it slide and, sadly, I haven't made it a priority. (Incidentally, I'm posting this information as a kind of public "confession", especially since I tend to do better sticking to things when others know about it.)

To be truthful, there hasn't been a whole lot to say. The weekend was insanely busy, mostly because I crammed as many errands as I could into Saturday and suffered for it on Sunday. As a result, my back and neck are quite sore, and I think I will need to pull out my heating pad before the day is through. I also tried to cram as much playtime as I could with The Boy all weekend, which was both fun and exhausting. He's at the stage where he's not quite able to express himself verbally and gets really angry if you don't understand immediately understand what he's trying to say. But he's also very sweet and cuddly and wants nothing more than to sit in your lap, snuggle, and look at books together.

He's quickly outgrowing his clothes (24-month and 2T pajamas are already in the hand-me-down box), and I told my husband last night that a part of me wants to cry every time I have to move him up a size. I bought and laundered new socks for him this weekend, and compared to his old socks, they looked so big. I sadly folded up the old (smaller) socks to pass along to a friend with a (much) younger boy, put sock sorters on the new socks before tossing them in the wash, and admittedly had some mixed emotions about my son's growing feet. Naturally, I'm elated that he's growing and quite obviously thriving, but it also means my little boy is going to be a big boy all too soon.

And, yes, that makes me a little sad.

It's month end again and I'm wrapping up last month's sales. It's only one or two nights and it happens just 12 times a year, so it's really not that bad. But it usually means I come home late, well after The Boy has gone to bed.

Last night was one of those nights. He was asleep by the time I got home (and probably by the time I left work), so I didn't interact with him very much. He cried out a few times and I went into his room to check on him, but as he was never awake, he probably didn't realize I was there.

He woke around midnight with terrible teething pains. Chris was still awake and I was already asleep, so I heard Chris tending to him before I had a chance to roll out of bed. But the lights were on, which only means there is activity The Boy is missing. Chris took him into the family room to turn off the lights and prove the rest of the house was already asleep, and on the way back to his room, The Boy saw my sleeping figure and did not want to return to bed. Chris brought him to his bedroom and closed the door, and I could hear the little one banging against the door, wailing and throwing things. I felt so bad.

After a few minutes, he settled down and was asleep again.

This morning, he awoke around 4:30 or so. He was still sleepy, but he didn't want to go back to sleep. Chris brought him into our room and cuddled him for a little while... until he saw me and decided I would make a better pillow than his dad. By 5:15, he announced he was thirsty ("Mill! Mill!") and did not want to lie down anymore ("Up! Up!"), so I rolled out of bed (really, I was pushed) and led him to the kitchen for breakfast.

He went to the pantry, took out the box of Cheerios, and put it on his little table. Then he got a bowl from the cupboard, put it on the table, crawled into his chair and made a motion to let me know that I needed to put Cheerios into his bowl. I know we've been working with him on this for months now, but how did he grow up so fast?

Just a year ago, he pushed himself into sitting position on his own. Twelve months before that he was still wriggling about and kicking my internal organs. And now he is too long to stretch out sideways on his mattress (longways is still good), can peer into his top dresser drawer to tell me which shirt he would rather wear, puts away his shoes and dirty clothes (though bargaining is sometimes required for him to do the latter), climbs on and off the couch with the greatest of ease, and communicates well enough to let us know what he wants.

Clearly, he continues to amaze me every day - and I almost feel like I've missed everything. It's times like these when I wish I could stay with him and soak in every second of his toddlerhood, but it's simply not an option when there are bills to pay.

Sometimes I think the Women's Movement was the worst thing to happen to motherhood.

I don't think there is anything that makes me feel more helpless than listening to my child's cries, knowing there's nothing I can do to help him and that Mommy's presence doesn't fix everything.

The Boy gets night terrors every now and then. Thankfully, it's not frequent, but when they hit, boy is it a doozy. They usually happen when he doesn't nap well or goes to bed very tired, as he did today. Knowing this, I make it a point to monitor his naps and adjust bedtime accordingly. Of course, since we attended a birthday party for his friend C today (at which there were several balloons), he only napped for about 20 minutes in the car this afternoon. He had plenty to eat all day, that I knew, so I put him down at 6 instead of 7. He protested until about 6:30, then finally fell asleep. Then the night terrors kicked in at 8. He just now has settled back down to sleep.

The screams are the worst, followed by the flailing. When I heard him cry out, I rushed into his room, expecting him to be tangled in his blanket or caught in one of the crib railings. Instead, he was lying down, thrashing about - and no amount of hushing from me or calm, comforting words would help. If anything, it seemed to aggravate him more. Instead, I sat in a corner of his darkened room, just watching and waiting for him to go back to sleep.

It's a terrible feeling, knowing that there isn't anything you can do, knowing that this is something he has to do on his own. Even worse is that I have no idea what his night terrors could involve, no idea what his dreams include.

And now that I'm back in the living room, I hear him cry out sporadically and hold my breath each time, wondering if another bout is pending.

I left work a few hours early to get some rest because this awful sinus cold is about to drive me insane. (Not that I'm not already there, mind you - just a worse part of insane.)

Anyway, I stopped at the store to pick up a rotisserie chicken for dinner. After all, I didn't feel like eating breakfast, I skipped lunch, and I'm really in no mood to make anything for dinner. So, a pre-cooked bird it would have to be.

And what do you think I did as soon as I got home (after I washed my hands)?

I cut open the chicken... and started cutting up bite-sized pieces to feed to The Boy for dinner.

Never mind that I haven't eaten all day, Never mind that he's got plenty of food in the house. And let's not talk about the fact that I think may have cut up two servings of chicken for him. Oh, no. When I see food, I think of The Boy's tummy first.

So, is this normal, this habit of putting my child's needs/wants before my own? I mean, I assume I'll outgrow it eventually. I can't, after all, imagine myself in another 13 or 14 years fretting about whether The Boy has had enough to eat or is getting enough sleep. Surely he'd be able to fend for himself by then. But at the same time, I have this strange feeling that there will be some other need/want of his that will be exponentially more important than my own.

Of course, it could just me another one of my (many) neuroses...

I think it's funny that I can pick up on a baby crying from the other side of the building.

I'm not sure whose little boy it was, but someone was unhappy and began crying. My ears immediately perked as I listened, as if I was making sure it wasn't my little boy in need. Isn't that funny? After all, I know exactly where he is right now (at school, probably finishing his lunch of turkey, cheese, and carrot sticks), and I know he was in a great mood when I left him (he even blew kisses at me).

But my Mommy sense was tingling. It's nice to know it works!

I always thought that line always sounded a little harsh, but I've realized over the last few weeks how very thankful I am to not be suffering like so many others in the world. (The line still sounds harsh, though.)

Almost every time I walk into the break room at work, CNN is running a story about parents in China who have lost their only children in this month's earthquake. It brings tears to my eyes just thinking about it. They've called it "China's Lost Generation", and it truly is. Here, the government limited the number of offspring per couple to just one, and now, in one fell swoop, that generation has practically been decimated.

Yesterday, I watched a mother, almost carried by her husband, walk the streets near the wreckage of a school, clinging to a photograph of her daughter and weeping uncontrollably. It's been more than two weeks, and she wants so desperately to believe that her child is alive and just waiting to be rescued. It's almost akin to those families waiting by the phone after the World Trade Center fell, only worse because there isn't an enemy to blame for the loss of your loved one.

Every time I think of these people, these families, these mothers, I choke back tears and resist the urge to rush to my son's school, drink in that smile he smiles just for me, and hug him and smother him with more kisses than I could possibly count, and then kiss him some more. But I wait until I get home to cuddle him and listen to him babble about his day, and I thank God every night when I check on my slumbering boy that we had a day together, and I thank Him again in the morning that we have the promise of another one.

I wouldn't wish this agony on anyone, but I do thank God it's not me suffering. And my heart breaks for all of those who are.

Ma-Ma Sisterhood Group

Please share with us your expectations for giving birth if you are currently pregnant and how your expectations were or were not met if you are already a mother. And for those of you with multiple children or who may be pregnant with a second child, please share how your expectations have varied from pregnancy to pregnancy.

I think I was among the delusional when it came to childbirth. In fact, I'm certain of it.

First of all, my son arrived far earlier than I anticipated. Three weeks, to be precise. I went to the doctor for my routine 36-week check up, only to be told that I was four centimeters dilated and 80% effaced. When just the day before I carefully planned out my week to tidy up all my loose ends in the event the baby came the following week, I was suddenly on maternity leave and urged not to stray too far from my house.

Oh, bother. I would hardly consider this good use of my maternity leave!

The morning following my 36-week check up, I felt the pangs of early labor. Surely my son will come now, I thought. But, alas, no. He was just testing me. After returning home from my second trip to triage, I was disappointed that he was stalling.

Late that evening, my labor (finally) progressed further. I'd like to think it was the chocolate ice cream that spurred it along. At any rate, we went back to the hospital, and, once again, I lay in triage for what seemed like an eternity, ever so fearful they would send me home once again. But, they didn't - and once I was admitted, I thought the baby would come very soon afterwards.

Boy, was I wrong. But after reading others' birth stories, I think I was among the luckier ones. I just wasn't as lucky as I would have liked to be.

Because I made it to four centimeters and 80% without knowing it, I honestly thought labor couldn't possibly be all that bad. And when a nurse came to my bedside and asked me if I wanted something to ease the pain, I initially refused, caving only a moment later when another contraction assaulted me. I was adamant, though: I did not want an epidural. And, so, I didn't have one. I had Nubain instead, which sent me into an opium-induced state of delirium. Oddly, Nubain is given to lots of women in early labor and is often ineffective for women in advanced labor (as I was), but it did the trick. I only asked for one refill, and that was it.

Thirty hours after the onset of early labor, ten hours after arriving at the hospital, eight hours after being admitted, three contractions and six good pushes later, I heard my son for the first time... and was strangely disappointed at the anticlimax of childbirth. I've no idea what I was expecting to feel, but I knew I didn't feel it. I peered down at the miracle of my messy, still unnamed son and, though relieved to be done with labor and elated that he was perfectly made with all ten fingers and all ten toes, I was just so unbelievably tired. And when the nurses gave him to me to nurse right away and he didn't want to latch on, I felt awful - all my expectations of being a "good" mother were already fading away before my eyes. (Mind you, he didn't completely figure out business of latching on until the next morning, but I had far more calls to the nurses' station than I thought I might.)

I laugh now at my naivete, how I believed that watching my nieces grow, talking to all my mom friends, and reading everything I could about motherhood while I was pregnant would somehow prepare me for the onslaught of mothering. Nothing can prepare you for motherhood, I've discovered. And just when I think I've figured out what my son needs, wants, and expects of me, he immediately changes the rules and I'm back to square one.

And yet, I would do it all again, with no hesitation.

I was trying desperately to get some rest. I had been up since 3:30 with the onset of early labor, I had washed all the baby's clothes and was already sent home from the hospital with instructions to not call again until the contractions were five minutes apart for more than two hours. And I could not, for the life of me, find a comfortable position.

In less than 23 hours, though, I would be holding my son for the very first time. And life, as I knew it, would never be the same.

L is a really nice lady whose son, J, is in Baby C's class at day care. He's about 4 months old, I think, and he's really quite sweet. (I think all babies are sweet, though.)

Anyway, this morning, L and I dropped off our boys at the same time, and she was watching me put Baby C's stuff away and exclaimed, "I love how you label everything!" (I have a label maker at home, one that I've had for years and years now.)

"Thanks," I said. "I'm admittedly a little neurotic about labeling all his stuff."

"I'm going to do that with all of J's stuff," she said. "I love looking at all of Baby C's things because they're so perfectly organized."

I finished putting the last of Baby C's food and milk in the refrigerator and stood up. "Oh, thank you! I try."

She continued, "I told my husband all about you and Baby C, and I told him I want to do everything for J that you do for your little boy!"

Oh dear God.

I know (think?) she means it as a compliment, so I will take it as such. But I think I'm freakishly obsessive about all of Baby C's stuff - from what he owns to what he ingests - and I don't necessarily think I'm a good role model.

But a compliment is a compliment, right? Maybe this means I'm really not such a terrible mother...