Becoming a Mommy

Having a baby instantly made me a mother, but it did not instantly make me a mommy. In fact, my journey from "milk lady" to "most awesome big person in Henry's life," spanned several months. To illustrate this, let's travel in time back to Henry's birthday. Shortly after entering the world, Henry was placed on my chest by a nurse while the medical staff continued to care for us. I was exhausted, and amazed to see that he was finally here, and perfectly perfect. Someone in the room asked me a question, and I answered. Henry suddenly whipped his head towards me, looking into my face, which was mere inches from his. He recognizes my voice, I thought tenderly. As our eyes met, his face showed surprise with a twinge of dismay. I swear he was thinking, "Is that--Is that what you look like?" After all of the time bonding during pregnancy we were strangers.

Fast forward through months of changing diapers and soothing discomforts, calming tears and singing songs, reading books and playing games, and you will see the new "us". We aren't strangers any more. I can see the change most when Henry flashes me his "sneaky" smile, which communicates that we are partners in crime who spend our days colluding to orchestrate the coolest of cool things. I feel like a million bucks every time I see it. Or this week, when we both have been sick with colds (Henry's first sickness), and his actions show me that I am his sanctuary and hospital. Becoming a mother was magical in every respect, and I look forward to hopefully having that experience again someday, but becoming a mommy is having all of your bones turned into "warm fuzzies." This transformation is necessary to make room for your heart which is bigger now, and a whole lot fuller. I love being a mommy, even during the rough days, and sick weeks, and even though I wish I could stop time at least once a day, I can't wait to see what the future holds for this mommy.

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Mr. Henry Teaches a Lesson

This is going to seem biased, but I think that Henry might be a genius. I mean, seriously, he is showing signs. I'm making an educated guess here that he will probably grow up to be the most brilliant, awesome, and charming human ever (think Sherlock Holmes meets Indiana Jones with a little Aragorn thrown in there too). However, in spite of how incredibly clever he is, he has moments that make me believe that he is not ready to solve cold fusion just yet.

Consider the following, increasingly common, scenario: the adventurous and inquisitive, newly mobile baby is gleefully crawling around on a search to identify any object that could become a choking hazard (and he gets creative with it--believe you me). His motion brings him to a solid object like the couch, my leg, a wall, a pillow, and once even the toilet (yes, the bathroom door is always closed now). Henry attempts to go through said object, and after two or three tries his "angry face" shows up. Now, like me, my son cannot maintain the emotion of anger for long. In fact, for him it lasts only a second or two before the angry feeling collapses into grief. But for those brief seconds Henry frowns slightly, narrows his eyes into slits, scrunches his nose in the most impressive of ways, and then breathes loudly through his nostrils, like he is trying to stay calm. Suddenly his head falls as he weeps, while continuing to try and push it through whatever obstacle he is facing. This continues until I pick him up and turn him in another direction. I find this phenomena amusing, particularly when the impassable object leaves a plethora of directions available for travel, and Henry has mastered the skill of turning already. The problem is that Henry is so fixated on his goal that it blinds him to anything else.

On another note, this was Zac's first week of working a night shift. While we are grateful for the work I really hate our new schedule. And when I say hate, I really mean that I abhor it with the strength of a hundred grizzly bears. When Zac called to tell me he had gotten the job I burst into tears the moment our call ended, then dreaded it enthusiastically until his first day. Hours before he left I cried again, tearfully admitting to him that I had secretly hoped that he would not be chosen for the position, and find a different job instead. He tried to comfort me with sincere sympathy, and then charged heroically into the night to provide for our family.

This is not the first time that something in my life has not gone the way I wanted to, and it won't be the last. Our ideals and realities rarely co-exist. It was on my third day of associating only with a seven month old and actors on netflix for the better part of each day, feeling disgruntled and defeated that I realized I was behaving just like Henry--Like. A. Baby. I was so focused on not getting what I wanted that I didn't notice that even a slight rotation in my attitude would give me good opportunities. Maybe they wouldn't be exactly what I wanted, but they would be better than sitting around feeling gloomy.

This metaphor provided by my son beautifully illustrates how silly we all look when we approach setbacks without the proper perspective. As I try to teach Henry how to patiently choose a plan B, I will strive to learn the same principle and live it. And voila--there you have it: even in his less intelligent moments Henry is capable of inspiring epiphanies and reform. Biased or not, that is impressive. He may solve cold fusion after all.

About a blob of tissue

The day of my very first ultrasound was a blur of nerves and excitement. I was so happy to finally be pregnant, and ecstatic about seeing my baby for the first time. I knew there wouldn't be much to see--I was only seven weeks along, but I had already received plenty of literature and knew what to expect. The doctor dimmed the lights, and my eyes locked on the screen as the squirt of warmed jelly hit my skin. The doppler device began making circles on my stomach as I held my breath, and... silence. My eyes searched the screen frantically, but I couldn't see anything. Nothing. Finally, the doctor's voice cut through the panic, "hmm... there should be..."

I guess I didn't know what to expect, after all.

Flash forward several months to the first ultrasound of my second pregnancy. Same exam room, same doctor. The lights dimmed, just as before, but this time my eyes were trained forward. I couldn't bear to look at the screen, terrified of seeing nothing again. I heard the doctor's voice, "ok, so..." She stopped speaking suddenly, and I felt her hand smack my shoulder. "Are you looking? Look!" I turned, queasy from more than just morning sickness. "There's your baby," she said, pointing at the screen. And there he was.

I could see his little heart beating away. He was so beautiful. "Sorry. I'm trying to measure him, but he's so wiggly," she said.

"He can move?" I asked, surprised. I had only been pregnant for
eight weeks, which meant he had only been growing for six. I watched him, amazed as he turned over.

"Oh yeah," she replied, "he moves a lot. Right now he doesn't like that we are poking him, so he's trying to turn away."

Lovely. Incredible. Exquisite. Breathtaking. I can't put into words that joy and warmth that raced to replace the fear in my heart when I saw him. Truthfully, that image is one of the most beautiful I have ever seen, and I tear up whenever I see an ultrasound image.

I can see why pro-choice health centers avoid performing ultrasounds for pregnant women. Once you see even the earliest evidence of your pregnancy, you have visual proof that your baby is alive, and uniquely formed, preparing to grow their body as we all have. And, once you see that, it's awfully hard to write off an embryo as nothing more than a blob of tissue or a lump of cells. But, if we're being honest, they are.

Yes, babies are a lump of cells. So am I. So are you. Truth: Everyone's body, when broken down, is nothing more than a lump of cells. That is if by lump, you mean expertly designed configuration of cells that grow and progress through the stages of life in their proper order, beginning at conception. In essence, "lump of cells," is a nothing more than a crass euphemism for a human's body.

Here is the thing about babies, both the kind you carry in your body, and the kind you can hold in your arms: they are the most exquisite blobs of cells and tissue in existence. They have never told a lie, or said an unkind word. In fact, they have never made any kind of mistake. No ugliness, only beauty. They are the embodiment of promise, and life, and unknown potential, and joy.

Here is what my sweet little lump of cells looked like
at eight weeks gestation:

 

At ten weeks gestation:

 

At twelve weeks gestation:

At twenty weeks gestation:

At forty weeks:

My Mother's Day was filled with reflection and deep gratitude for the opportunity I have to raise my son. He is the crowning blessing in the life my husband and I are building together. I am aware that it is fundamentally unfair that I should be so blessed with a beautiful, healthy child. It is absolutely unfair--when so many couples struggle against infertility, lose children to illness or accident, and when many people long to marry and begin a family with someone they love. I am forever thankful that I did not compound that inequality with the foolishness and ignorance inherent in looking the opportunity for motherhood straight in the eyes, then shutting them tight and screaming "it's just a blob of tissue!"

Guilty Much?

Henry had been home with us for less than a week when I realized that I might be a terrible mother. "I feel bad that our room isn't warmer, that I'm so tired, that I forgot a back up outfit, that I can't help him stop crying, that...." Finally, after my hundredth "I feel bad that..." statement Zac said, "I'm learning that there are a lot of things to feel guilty about as a parent." And there are SO MANY for us to feel guilty about, if we let ourselves, which is why a little perspective can go a long way.

When I catch a case of the "guilties" I repeat in my mind the words my mother told me just before Henry was born. This is her parenting philosophy: "It doesn't really matter how many mistakes you make as long as you are trying, and as long as the children know that you love them." Now, my mother isn't perfect, but she could take a gold medal for many events in the mom-lympics--no contest. If the best teacher, protector, and sacrifice-maker I know makes loving her children the priority, and cuts herself some slack on the rest, than I can too.

Beating myself up generally won't turn me into a better parent, just a more disheartened one. I am slowly learning to give myself a break. My technique is simple: when I catch myself self-censuring I think about how I could do better the next time, and then about two good mommy tasks I have done that day. Luckily, I have a husband who thinks of a dozen reasons why I'm a good mother, and assures me of this every day. You may not have someone like that in your life, so I'm calling it just in case: You are a good mom.

You try your best every day, even though what your best is changes from day to day; and some days are better than others. You do what absolutely needs to get done, and if some less important things (meaning anything not directly related to keeping your children alive) fall through the cracks, so be it. In fact, according to my mother's wisdom as long as they feel your love you're doing great! And I'm willing to bet they feel your love constantly (mean-mom moments included--yeah, I've been there).

In just two days a calendar-mandated celebration of your contributions as a mother will commence. While your families are appreciating you, take a moment to appreciate yourself. Instead of allowing yourself to feel overwhelmed or defeated, allow yourself to feel successful and valuable.Take a look at what you have accomplished and feel happy about it. Motherhood is challenging enough as it is--we can't afford to side with the opposing team.

So give yourself a break, you wonderful mother, you! And have a fabulous mother's day, every day.

Please Don't Judge Me By How Loudly my Baby is Screaming

Henry is a generally happy baby, but he has moments. Like, serious moments. Moments when I worry that some good Samaritan will get the wrong idea, and call child protective services. Zac and  I refer to this phenomena as Henry's"hulk rage," because of the torrent of emotions that consumes Henry.

When reflecting on "hulk rage" moments, two in particular come to mind. The first occurred when Henry was about four months old. As previously mentioned on this blog he is sensitive to dairy. By four months old Henry was well passed the 12 week mark, which the lactation expert we consulted identified as the point when his digestive system should be matured, and his gut sealed; so we decided to do a test to see if we could reintroduce dairy. I ate a small piece of cheese, and 20 hours later we had our answer: dairy is definitely not OK.

It is so not OK, that he screamed for 90 minutes straight, and no amount of colic calm, or tummy rubs, or bicycling of legs could calm him. About 30 minutes in to this ordeal, I started to worry. My neighbors were all young college students without children. What if their annoyance with our noisy baby escalated into concern for his well being. After 60 minutes of crying my worst fear was realized: there was a knock on my door. I immediately tried to camouflage my exhaustion with a smile that I hoped looked sincere. Luckily, my visitors were members of my church, and not officials come to assess my capability as a mother.

The second time was in the bathroom  of a Kohl's department store. Henry hulked out because I had the audacity to change his diaper before feeding him. Bathrooms have great acoustics, and the incredible volume of his wails made me realize that all of the lectures I had ever received about not listening to loud music were a complete waste of time. I was clearly going to be deaf anyway. Throughout this ordeal I also had the pleasure of seeing the priceless expression of every woman and child who entered the bathroom. Each crossed the threshold with wide, worried eyes, and lowered jaws. Their eyes quickly assessed the situation, and I can only assume it was the lack of blood that made them studiously look away and go about their business with acutely uncomfortable countenances. And, you must consider that these women were mothers and grandmothers, OK? This give important context to the "hulk rage" because they had been around babies before, and yet none looked at me with any sympathy, or understanding. I suppose their reactions were understandable-I was changing his diaper, but I might as well have been cutting off his toes for the noise he was making. Big tears rolled down his face, and he babbled indignantly through his sobs. I fed him as soon as I was able, but because he was still angry he paused several times while nursing to continue telling me off. When it was over, I was happy to realize that I
still have hearing in both ears. I hope the same is true for the others who were in our proximity.

These terrifying rages are thankfully few and far between. I don't know how I would have reacted if the people I had interacted with had felt it their place to say something judgmental or unkind about me or my parenting, based on a small snapshot of my life that does not accurately reflect it as a whole.  I can imagine that I would be angry and hurt and frustrated. Not only would they be "kicking me when I'm down," it would also distract me from caring for my baby. Only I know the kind of morning we had already had, or how much I was trying to care for and calm my son. Consequently, I am the only one entitled to hold an opinion on it.

It baffles me that some people think it is OK to pass judgement on other parents. A mother I know recently posted about an experience on her Facebook. She was at a grocery store when her toddler threw a tantrum (like they do). It was at this moment when a stranger opened her big, mean mouth. You guys, she actually had the nerve to tell this mother "you are a bad mom." Just in case you are confused: it is NEVER OK to pass judgement on other parents. This rule is absolute with two exceptions--abuse and neglect. You might not agree with how others parent, and that's OK because you do not have to raise your own children that way.  If you want to be helpful try your luck at saying something kind and encouraging.

Every parent in my association is just doing their best. Parenthood is a beautiful, messy adventure. Mine is filled with "hulk rages" and happy smiles and giggles. It is glorious and hard, and has no room to accommodate harsh words and judgements from the unqualified. So please, keep these to yourself!