For four years, Evie has been our beloved tyrant.
She came from the hospital and immediately put us on a schedule. She was exhausting. Beyond exhausting with her strict schedule and highly volatile nature. I remember the night I walked the floors with her all night, in tears and crying with her, because family from out of town had visited that day and her whole schedule had been tossed out the window. She just screamed and arched her back and screamed more. At my wit's end, I broke down and called my mom. I had walked the floors until I was too tired to walk more and I simply didn't know what to do. She came right over, sat with the baby while I got a couple of hours of sleep. I swore then that I wouldn't put her through anything like that again and we all stuck rigidly to her schedule from that day on.
As an older baby, I read autism check-lists and development lists. I always just had this nagging worry. One I chalked up to first-time mom. She grew fast, she passed all her physical milestones, most of them early. And as soon as she was walking, she was climbing, jumping, falling all over the house. She didn't babble. And she didn't talk. But the doctors reassured me she was meeting her milestones and she was fine.
As a toddler, she continued to be strict about her schedule. You could nearly set a clock by her. As we moved from mushy, squishy baby foods to lumpy, chewy baby foods and even real foods, Evie became a picky eater. She became one of those kids who lived off chicken nuggets and goldfish. She only wanted to watch Dora the Explorer. She still wouldn't talk. She could. Sometimes she would talk, but only if she had to. When her little sister came along, Evie was 18 months old and she regressed quite a bit, which I expected. But socially, she never sprang back forward like she should have.
As she grew into a preschooler, something continued to gnaw at me. She finally started talking more, but it was minimal at first. Only just enough to prevent the doctor from referring us to a speech therapist. I spoke to the pediatrician at Evie's two year check up. Asked about how strict Evie was about sticking to her schedule, her horrifying meltdowns when there was any change in her life, her many "quirks"...the pediatrician told me that she was clearly very bright. And that unfortunately for me, life with smart kids was difficult. Uh, thanks.
At another doctor's appointment, the doctor just told me that Evie was obviously very sensitive. Beyond that my concerns were dismissed and I was once more told she was healthy. She was fine.
But she wasn't.
Evie continued to need a strict daily regimen. She woke up, she had breakfast. If she had oatmeal, which some days she did, it could not be above room temperature. If she dropped some food on herself or her eating area, it had to be cleaned up immediately. Afterwards, she needed to get dressed. She could not put on her regular clothes before breakfast. When dressing, clothes needed to be specific. Not to tight. Nothing scratchy or pokey. Seams needed to be small. Socks needed to be low. No turtle necks. No wool.
I learned what she needed and just adapted to it. To not adhere was not worth the struggle. Putting her in clothes she didn't like resulted in meltdowns of colossal proportions. Changes to our schedule led to unbearable evenings and nights where Evie could not and would not go to sleep. Until she became old enough to say specifically what she did and didn't like and explain what was wrong, life with Evie was quite miserable. Even once she was able to express herself, life was only slightly less miserable.
People told me she needed more discipline. More time outs. More spankings. I couldn't let her be the boss. When she threw her fits I needed to put her in her room and let her cry it out and she would stop. As soon as she didn't have an audience, she would stop. I tried that. Her meltdowns were borderline scary, and I would try putting her in her room and she would just get more and more upset. Until she was on the verge of hyperventilating and too exhausted to scream. Only then would she calm down. More spankings and more discipline only worsened things as well. I could tell looking in her eyes that frequently her behavior scared her. That when she was beyond my control, she was beyond her own control as well.
I tried a new tactic. Instead of raising my voice and trying to boss her into submission, I got quieter. I sat with her and helped her take deep breaths and tell me what was wrong when she got upset. Most days, that helped. She started to learn to help herself and learn new tactics for dealing with her feelings. The miserable months changed to bearable ones. Though I told my mom that it worried me that Evie wasn't able to manage herself, that we were managing her. And I felt that she would never be able to go to school because there was no way a teacher could handle her in a room full of other kids. But I didn't know what else to do. Everyone seemed to feel that Evie was spoiled and undisciplined or simply high-maintenance and strong-willed. I learned to stop telling friends and outsiders about life with her, because I felt like I was the worst parent in the world. Why couldn't I control my child? Why couldn't I teach her to stop freaking out over the smallest things?
One day, I was perusing the internet, blog hopping, and found a blog about a mom whose son had been diagnosed with Sensory Processing Disorder. She told a story about going on a bug hunt with his class from school, and how her son was unable to find a bug in the allotted time, like many of the other children. However, when the teacher instructed them it was time to go back inside, her son had a meltdown. Crying inconsolably, heartbroken, devastated. Beyond anything you would expect or could truly express in words. And the mom stayed out with him until he was able to find a bug. This was Evie. We hadn't been in that particular situation before, but similar ones. And Evie was inconsolable.
A sad light bulb went off. I began scouring the internet for everything I could find about Sensory Processing Disorder, or SPD. I found dozens of sites, blogs, check lists. Types of therapies and tools to help SPD kids. But even though I thought this was the answer to what had always been going on with Evie, I didn't know what the next step was.
I thought maybe I should call the pediatrician. But honestly, I was terrified. To call the doctor's office would be to admit that maybe something was "wrong" with Evie. That it wasn't me being a crappy mom or a phase or a bad day. Something was wrong. And I wasn't sure I was ready to admit that. Finally, after wavering back and forth for over a week, I called. My heart was in my throat when I spoke with the nurse. I told her I wanted Evie evaluated for Sensory Processing Disorder and waited with bated breath to hear what she'd say next. Of course, next she says, "Oh. Well, I will have the doctor call you." Great...the next night the doctor finally calls back and I have pages of notes and lists. Checklists that I have filled out about Evie and reasons I have for thinking she might have this disorder. Pages, I kid you not. After a brief discussion, the doctor agreed we should have her evaluated and we discussed where to go. She told me she would submit the paperwork for a referral and wished us luck.
The phone call came from the therapist's office the same week my brother passed away. So, while the appointment was scribbled on the calendar, it went on the back burner. It wasn't something I fretted over or obsessed about. Next thing we knew, the day was upon us. I was a ball of nerves again when we went for her evaluation. And an hour later, the therapist was handing me a fat folder full of reading materials on SPD. She was walking me through home treatments to go through with Evie and talking about what all we would be doing during her weekly therapy sessions.
So there it is. My baby has Sensory Processing Disorder. It is weird on one hand to think about. But at the same time, it's really nice to know she's going to be getting help now. Help that will make it possible for her to control her reactions, control her feelings, limit her meltdowns (which is what the clinical term is for what a SPD child has, not a tantrum). I was told that I have actually already done a lot to make Evie's life easier, like being understanding of her needs and enrolling her in gymnastics so she has an outlet for all that wild bouncing energy. We have a diagnosis, but she still likes her oatmeal cold and her baths lukewarm. And maybe, that's just life with Evie.
Friday, January 10, 2014
Sunday, January 5, 2014
Moving On
Like it or not, life always keeps moving.
When you live with little people, life moves quickly and messily forward. Every waking minute of every day is quite full. From wake up and breakfast to clean up and getting dressed to more clean up to activities and play time to more clean up. Lunch, clean up. Naps, snacks, clean up. Supper, baths, clean up. Stories, teeth, bed, more clean up. It's a bit exhausting just to type.
I believe it is something that has made my mother's days easier to bear. The busy work. There is no time for grieving when you are so exhausted.
So here we are. Three weeks into the rest of our lives. Five days into a new year. The first year without Ethan.
And moving on is something we have no choice but to do.
I celebrated Christmas Eve with my in-laws. We celebrated Christmas Eve. Then Christmas. Then New Year's. My mom and Ethan's best friend and myself all went and got Ethan tattoos. The girls stay with my mom. I go to work. Every day goes by much like the one before. This weekend I felt up to making plans with friends. Had a wonderful time and it was great to be with other grown ups. Talk. Laugh.
Life marches on. The day to day pulls us right along.
Most days, I am doing okay. Sometimes I will see something or think something and it all hits me all over again. And then there is that big gaping hole ready to swallow me up. Sometimes I have had the luxury of being able to put my head in my hands and cry for a minute. Or take big gulps of air and replay all the lines that have made all this easier. He's finally better. We will see him again. He's happy now.
But he's still gone.
Sometimes my mantra cannot stop my mind and all I can think of instead is the times we were together and the moments I missed. The dreams that we had for his future that will never come to fruition. All the things I will never get to say. The things he will never get to do.
Sometimes I think we are doing good. Sometimes not so much. Either way. We are moving on.
When you live with little people, life moves quickly and messily forward. Every waking minute of every day is quite full. From wake up and breakfast to clean up and getting dressed to more clean up to activities and play time to more clean up. Lunch, clean up. Naps, snacks, clean up. Supper, baths, clean up. Stories, teeth, bed, more clean up. It's a bit exhausting just to type.
I believe it is something that has made my mother's days easier to bear. The busy work. There is no time for grieving when you are so exhausted.
So here we are. Three weeks into the rest of our lives. Five days into a new year. The first year without Ethan.
And moving on is something we have no choice but to do.
I celebrated Christmas Eve with my in-laws. We celebrated Christmas Eve. Then Christmas. Then New Year's. My mom and Ethan's best friend and myself all went and got Ethan tattoos. The girls stay with my mom. I go to work. Every day goes by much like the one before. This weekend I felt up to making plans with friends. Had a wonderful time and it was great to be with other grown ups. Talk. Laugh.
Life marches on. The day to day pulls us right along.
Most days, I am doing okay. Sometimes I will see something or think something and it all hits me all over again. And then there is that big gaping hole ready to swallow me up. Sometimes I have had the luxury of being able to put my head in my hands and cry for a minute. Or take big gulps of air and replay all the lines that have made all this easier. He's finally better. We will see him again. He's happy now.
But he's still gone.
Sometimes my mantra cannot stop my mind and all I can think of instead is the times we were together and the moments I missed. The dreams that we had for his future that will never come to fruition. All the things I will never get to say. The things he will never get to do.
Sometimes I think we are doing good. Sometimes not so much. Either way. We are moving on.
Sunday, December 29, 2013
The Things I Never Said
Dear Ethan,
Hello little brother. I hope you're doing well. I'm sure you're doing better now than you were the last time we spoke. For so long, your eyes have held a pain that you couldn't fix. Your body has carried a burden you weren't able to bear. I'm sure that weight is gone and your pain is lifted. I know your eyes are clear and you're walking tall under bright blue skies. Sometimes, thinking how happy you must be now brings a smile to my own face. That and knowing that you've probably had a least a dozen of Ma Mary's warm hugs. And you've seen Pa Booker. And of course Jesus.
I want to say sorry. For so many things. First, I'm sorry I never wrote you when you were in jail. But you never wrote me either. I'm sure if you had asked for my address, Grandma or Momma would have given it to you. So maybe you just didn't want to write me. Reading Momma's letters though, I wish I had some of my own. Reading them I can hear your voice and even though it's hard and sad, it's nice to hear.
I'm sorry I never called. But you never called either. You never asked for my number. So maybe you didn't want to talk. Maybe you knew yourself better than we give you credit for sometimes. You were prone to calling those you loved and complaining, fussing and blaming. Cussing sometimes. I like to think you cared enough about me and my opinion of you that you didn't want to risk doing that with me. So while we both missed out on the potential good calls, you spared me the bad ones too.
I'm sorry we didn't talk more.
I wish when you talked to me about one day getting your life straightened out and having kids I was more enthusiastic. It wasn't that I didn't want you to get your life straight. Because I wanted it more than I could ever say. Or because I didn't want you to have kids. Because I did! Being an aunt to your kids would have been awesome. They could come hang out with my kids. We could have taken turns babysitting. The kids could spend the night together. Christmas would have been a wild rumpus of wrapping paper and screaming, snotty-nosed little people. I tried to keep enthusiasm in check because I didn't want you to jump into something before you were ready for it. Especially if that something involved a baby. Babies are a serious business after all.
I wish I had made sure to tell you how much my kids liked you. Rather than assuming you guessed it from their enthusiasm and from what family told you. I wish I had told you more often that I loved you. Because I did. And I do. And I always will. I wish I had given you more hugs. Because you gave such excellent hugs. I wish we had spent more time together during the last five years. Not just holidays and special occasions. But weekends and meals and just hanging out together. I wish I had more good memories with you from the last few years. But I'm really glad I don't have more bad memories. I wish I had more pictures of you. I didn't realize until after you were gone that we have no pictures of you with my kids. As much as they meant to you, I hate that I didn't make sure and get some shots of Uncle Ethan with the three Es.
I'm sorry things didn't go differently for you. That you weren't able to get free from your addiction and get better. I'm sorry that you got addicted in the first place.
I miss you. Which is weird kinda. Because you weren't really a part of my every day life. And yet I think I have thought about you every day since we learned you passed away. I miss you. Your death has left a hole in my life that I would never have expected.
Momma said something after your funeral that helped me a lot. That has made my regret easier to bear. Repeating it in my head stops my tears. None of us knew we were working with an expiration date. We didn't know that we wouldn't have next year with you. Or the next ten years. I didn't know in August that I wouldn't be seeing you for Thanksgiving. And Christmas. When I was mad at you for not showing up on Thanksgiving, I didn't know I wouldn't be seeing you for Christmas. I thought we had time. That there would be plenty of time. And I guess that is how most people live their lives...with the expectation that there is a tomorrow. That there is a next week and a next year. Your death has reminded me that there never is. We aren't promised a next Christmas. We can't plan on doing things better next year. Or next week. We aren't promised a next breath. None of us know when our time will come. Or when the time of a loved one will come. And that knowledge has a profound effect on me. Though I am trying valiantly to not let that knowledge become something that makes me bitter or hostile or worry over much. Granted, I already worry a lot. But I'm trying to use it to remind me NOT to worry. Not to hang on to fears or failures. Because I might not have a chance to right a wrong.
All in all, it's the knowledge that you're better that is getting me through. Knowing you are happy now. That everything finally makes sense for you. That you are at peace.
Please take care of yourself. Remember that we love you. And we all miss you. For you, things are easy and good. No matter how much we miss you, none of us would ever want to change things and take you away from how much better you are now. I hope I am always able to hear your voice in my head, jokingly calling me "Big Sis" and asking how I am. I hope you're watching over us, worrying about Momma like you always have. I bet Christmas in Heaven was phenomenal and that Jesus throws a killer birthday smash. I'm sure his cake was even better than the one I made. We will all be back together one day. Until then we will miss you though.
Love always,
Your "BIG" sister
Hello little brother. I hope you're doing well. I'm sure you're doing better now than you were the last time we spoke. For so long, your eyes have held a pain that you couldn't fix. Your body has carried a burden you weren't able to bear. I'm sure that weight is gone and your pain is lifted. I know your eyes are clear and you're walking tall under bright blue skies. Sometimes, thinking how happy you must be now brings a smile to my own face. That and knowing that you've probably had a least a dozen of Ma Mary's warm hugs. And you've seen Pa Booker. And of course Jesus.
I want to say sorry. For so many things. First, I'm sorry I never wrote you when you were in jail. But you never wrote me either. I'm sure if you had asked for my address, Grandma or Momma would have given it to you. So maybe you just didn't want to write me. Reading Momma's letters though, I wish I had some of my own. Reading them I can hear your voice and even though it's hard and sad, it's nice to hear.
I'm sorry I never called. But you never called either. You never asked for my number. So maybe you didn't want to talk. Maybe you knew yourself better than we give you credit for sometimes. You were prone to calling those you loved and complaining, fussing and blaming. Cussing sometimes. I like to think you cared enough about me and my opinion of you that you didn't want to risk doing that with me. So while we both missed out on the potential good calls, you spared me the bad ones too.
I'm sorry we didn't talk more.
I wish when you talked to me about one day getting your life straightened out and having kids I was more enthusiastic. It wasn't that I didn't want you to get your life straight. Because I wanted it more than I could ever say. Or because I didn't want you to have kids. Because I did! Being an aunt to your kids would have been awesome. They could come hang out with my kids. We could have taken turns babysitting. The kids could spend the night together. Christmas would have been a wild rumpus of wrapping paper and screaming, snotty-nosed little people. I tried to keep enthusiasm in check because I didn't want you to jump into something before you were ready for it. Especially if that something involved a baby. Babies are a serious business after all.
I wish I had made sure to tell you how much my kids liked you. Rather than assuming you guessed it from their enthusiasm and from what family told you. I wish I had told you more often that I loved you. Because I did. And I do. And I always will. I wish I had given you more hugs. Because you gave such excellent hugs. I wish we had spent more time together during the last five years. Not just holidays and special occasions. But weekends and meals and just hanging out together. I wish I had more good memories with you from the last few years. But I'm really glad I don't have more bad memories. I wish I had more pictures of you. I didn't realize until after you were gone that we have no pictures of you with my kids. As much as they meant to you, I hate that I didn't make sure and get some shots of Uncle Ethan with the three Es.
I'm sorry things didn't go differently for you. That you weren't able to get free from your addiction and get better. I'm sorry that you got addicted in the first place.
I miss you. Which is weird kinda. Because you weren't really a part of my every day life. And yet I think I have thought about you every day since we learned you passed away. I miss you. Your death has left a hole in my life that I would never have expected.
Momma said something after your funeral that helped me a lot. That has made my regret easier to bear. Repeating it in my head stops my tears. None of us knew we were working with an expiration date. We didn't know that we wouldn't have next year with you. Or the next ten years. I didn't know in August that I wouldn't be seeing you for Thanksgiving. And Christmas. When I was mad at you for not showing up on Thanksgiving, I didn't know I wouldn't be seeing you for Christmas. I thought we had time. That there would be plenty of time. And I guess that is how most people live their lives...with the expectation that there is a tomorrow. That there is a next week and a next year. Your death has reminded me that there never is. We aren't promised a next Christmas. We can't plan on doing things better next year. Or next week. We aren't promised a next breath. None of us know when our time will come. Or when the time of a loved one will come. And that knowledge has a profound effect on me. Though I am trying valiantly to not let that knowledge become something that makes me bitter or hostile or worry over much. Granted, I already worry a lot. But I'm trying to use it to remind me NOT to worry. Not to hang on to fears or failures. Because I might not have a chance to right a wrong.
All in all, it's the knowledge that you're better that is getting me through. Knowing you are happy now. That everything finally makes sense for you. That you are at peace.
Please take care of yourself. Remember that we love you. And we all miss you. For you, things are easy and good. No matter how much we miss you, none of us would ever want to change things and take you away from how much better you are now. I hope I am always able to hear your voice in my head, jokingly calling me "Big Sis" and asking how I am. I hope you're watching over us, worrying about Momma like you always have. I bet Christmas in Heaven was phenomenal and that Jesus throws a killer birthday smash. I'm sure his cake was even better than the one I made. We will all be back together one day. Until then we will miss you though.
Love always,
Your "BIG" sister
Saturday, December 28, 2013
We Survived...The First of the Rest of our Lives...
I am usually a Christmas nut. I get my shopping done early. I count down the days with enthusiasm. I have a harder time sleeping on Christmas Eve than the kids. But this year, I just wanted to get it over with.
After Ethan's funeral, I tried really hard to get back into the Christmas spirit. It was two days after his funeral when we went to my in-laws for our Christmas celebration with them. While it was great to get away for a couple of days, I just did not feel the same excitement that I usually have. We made it through. I pushed through with a lot of fake smiles and forced laughter. But I made it.
Then it was only a couple more days until our annual Christmas Eve celebration at my mom's. It was our first holiday without Ethan. Ethan always loved Christmas. It was one of the few times we could count on seeing him each year. Of course, he was motivated to show up because he might be getting a gift...not always because he was interested in spending time with the rest of us. Last year was a great Christmas. Ethan had been sober for a while and was excited to be spending the holiday with all of us. He was excited to see the girls and had even made an effort to get THEM something. Giving to others wasn't something he was usually known for. And it meant a lot to me that he cared. The girls were beyond ecstatic. For whatever reason they had really taken to Ethan and getting to see their Uncle Ethan made their day.
I thought I was going to make it through Christmas Eve without actually crying. But my grandmother brought me a small bag with something she found in Ethan's things that she thought I would like to have: Ethan's hat. Of course that brought on the tears. I cried a little on Christmas but mostly managed okay. Here we are three days later though...we made it. The first holiday of the rest of our lives.
Our first holiday with a hole in it. But we made it through. We have a couple of months until Elisabeth and Elly's birthdays. Then a couple more months until my grandmother and Ethan's shared birthday. I know that will be a challenging month. Then we will have four months until another family get together, Evie's birthday. That was the last time that I saw Ethan this year. In August. He had started using again and didn't look as good as I wanted him to. But he was there. And he seemed sober.
He's in many of the pictures from that day. I have found myself perusing them and trying to remember any conversation I had with him that day. Any contact. That was the last time I had any contact with him. And I can't even remember if I hugged him bye. I was so busy with the party and trying to take care of everyone. And I was disappointed in him for having started using drugs again. I'd like to go back to that day and give him a big hug. Tell him I loved him and that I always would. Ask him to take care of himself. See if he wanted to go to lunch one day and catch up. I would sit with him, the heck with everyone else at the party, and just talk.
Of course, that isn't possible. Nothing can change the past and there's no way to bring him back or change things. I know that next year, Christmas will be easier. In a few years, we might even be able to talk about him without getting all watery-eyed and snotty. Many years down the road, we will be better. The hole will still be there but we will be better at dealing with it. But we survived the first one.
After Ethan's funeral, I tried really hard to get back into the Christmas spirit. It was two days after his funeral when we went to my in-laws for our Christmas celebration with them. While it was great to get away for a couple of days, I just did not feel the same excitement that I usually have. We made it through. I pushed through with a lot of fake smiles and forced laughter. But I made it.
Then it was only a couple more days until our annual Christmas Eve celebration at my mom's. It was our first holiday without Ethan. Ethan always loved Christmas. It was one of the few times we could count on seeing him each year. Of course, he was motivated to show up because he might be getting a gift...not always because he was interested in spending time with the rest of us. Last year was a great Christmas. Ethan had been sober for a while and was excited to be spending the holiday with all of us. He was excited to see the girls and had even made an effort to get THEM something. Giving to others wasn't something he was usually known for. And it meant a lot to me that he cared. The girls were beyond ecstatic. For whatever reason they had really taken to Ethan and getting to see their Uncle Ethan made their day.
I thought I was going to make it through Christmas Eve without actually crying. But my grandmother brought me a small bag with something she found in Ethan's things that she thought I would like to have: Ethan's hat. Of course that brought on the tears. I cried a little on Christmas but mostly managed okay. Here we are three days later though...we made it. The first holiday of the rest of our lives.
Our first holiday with a hole in it. But we made it through. We have a couple of months until Elisabeth and Elly's birthdays. Then a couple more months until my grandmother and Ethan's shared birthday. I know that will be a challenging month. Then we will have four months until another family get together, Evie's birthday. That was the last time that I saw Ethan this year. In August. He had started using again and didn't look as good as I wanted him to. But he was there. And he seemed sober.
He's in many of the pictures from that day. I have found myself perusing them and trying to remember any conversation I had with him that day. Any contact. That was the last time I had any contact with him. And I can't even remember if I hugged him bye. I was so busy with the party and trying to take care of everyone. And I was disappointed in him for having started using drugs again. I'd like to go back to that day and give him a big hug. Tell him I loved him and that I always would. Ask him to take care of himself. See if he wanted to go to lunch one day and catch up. I would sit with him, the heck with everyone else at the party, and just talk.
Of course, that isn't possible. Nothing can change the past and there's no way to bring him back or change things. I know that next year, Christmas will be easier. In a few years, we might even be able to talk about him without getting all watery-eyed and snotty. Many years down the road, we will be better. The hole will still be there but we will be better at dealing with it. But we survived the first one.
Thursday, December 19, 2013
Breastfeeding: Ten Months In!
From the get go I wanted to be able to post regular updates on my nursing journey as an encouragement to other mommas who were just starting out. Honestly, it gets so much better!
Of course, I think I posted one or two updates on the blog that I have lost. And those were back in the beginning, when things were less than splendiforous.
Now I have a ten and a half month old baby. Blows my mind. Even more impressive to me is that fact that she has never had a drop of formula. I can't believe that I have been able to stick with it. And I wish that I were able to pin point some magical secret that has worked this time.
If I had to narrow it down to one thing I had this go round that I didn't feel like I had the previous two babies, it would be support. It's not that my family or friends didn't "support" me during the first two babies. They did. I mean, they were the sort of blind support that every momma needs, they supported me whichever choice I made. But this go round I had much more extended support. My doctor's office had a lot of breastfeeding education and a lactation consultant. I was encouraged much more to breastfeed and was even given the information before I had the baby on how to get a pump before I went back to work. And of course I had the support of 12 weeks home with the baby. If I had that the first two times I might have been able to breastfeed them this long.
Occasionally, I feel a twinge of regret over the fact that I didn't nurse Evie and Elly. But I am not one of those people who likes to dedicate time and energy to the what-if's and should-have's. They're healthy. Seem to be fairly normal, functional kids. So all in all, I did alright. Right?
Being a mom of three, I had a lot more internal support as well. I knew that I would have to let a lot of things go when baby #3 came. Laundry might pile up. Floors might be sticky. Dishes may go unwashed. It will all be okay. I knew going in that I wouldn't sleep...Ever. Again. And I just accepted it. One day they will be teenagers and I will be waking their butts up at the crack of dawn. Revenge will be sweet. But babies need to eat. And babies need to eat around the clock. When babies need to eat they cry. I felt like breastfeeding was something I could probably do. Or at least try really hard to do. And since this would be my last baby, I felt like it was something I needed to give a good effort.
So I did it. And when I felt like I couldn't, I frantically called, messaged and texted people. I cried and I called and texted more. I got a lactation consultant involved. And then I got another lactation consultant involved. Baby grew and things got easier. Eventually nursing got easier and I felt comfortable with adding pumping into the regimen. Pumping still sucks. But I stick with it because it makes the rest possible.
My original goal of one year is in sight. And I have extended my breastfeeding plans to two years. At least. No, I don't plan on having a kindergartner nursling. But I have read so many articles and have taken in so much information about breastfeeding that I simply don't believe that one year is the age to wean. When you look at other species and the age when a mother naturally weans her baby, you see functioning juveniles who can largely fend for themselves in their society. Think about 8 week old puppies or yearling colts. They eat the same food the adults do. They walk, talk, able to hold their bladder enough not to pee on themselves every few minutes. They are members of their pack or herd. Compare that to the functionality of a one year old. Many one year-olds are neither walking nor talking. Not beyond a weak toddle and a bunch of baby gibberish. Doctors around the world have found that the nutrition found in breast milk is needed well beyond the 12 month mark. Not only do they need the nutrition and the antibodies and the vitamins, the physical and psychological comfort are invaluable and difficult to measure. The World Health Organization now recommends that mothers breastfeed for the first two years. And then as long after that as the mother and baby are happy.
Nursing Elisabeth is still going well. On days I work, she nurses frequently. Two or three times in the morning before work. Then two or three in the evening when we are home. Then once or twice at night. She is the sweetest baby too. She always wants to touch my face or rub my arm while she nurses. Though sometimes she also wants to try and put her foot in my mouth. Or pull on my eye lashes. (I dont get it, but she thinks it's HILARIOUS.)
As she gets older, I can tell a difference between the times she wants to nurse because she's hungry and the times she wants to nurse because she missed me or she fell down or she's tired or she's teething or she doesn't feel good or...well, the list goes on. The bee-bee's are the magical miracle cure to whatever ails her. I feel like nursing is as close to recreating the womb as a baby can get. That's why newborns relish in it. Why babies get that blissed out look when they nurse. It's adorable. And I totally understand that the real world is really difficult for them and any wonderful, warm, happy, belly-full place for them is a happy one. Even at 10 months, sometimes Elisabeth just needs that warm comfort. Needs to be warm and safe and have mommy's smell and mommy's heartbeat close.
I am proud that we have made it this far. I hope things continue to go well for us. But if something were to happen, I can take pride in the fact that we made it this long. I love the feeling of snuggling up to a warm baby and snoozing a bit while she nurses herself back to sleep. I love the big grins she gives while she smacks her lips and pats me after she nurses. And I feel cherished when she cries "mama" and holds her hands up for me, then when I pick her up, immediately rests her tear-streaked cheeks on my shoulder while she pats my back and hugs me tight.
Of course, I think I posted one or two updates on the blog that I have lost. And those were back in the beginning, when things were less than splendiforous.
Now I have a ten and a half month old baby. Blows my mind. Even more impressive to me is that fact that she has never had a drop of formula. I can't believe that I have been able to stick with it. And I wish that I were able to pin point some magical secret that has worked this time.
If I had to narrow it down to one thing I had this go round that I didn't feel like I had the previous two babies, it would be support. It's not that my family or friends didn't "support" me during the first two babies. They did. I mean, they were the sort of blind support that every momma needs, they supported me whichever choice I made. But this go round I had much more extended support. My doctor's office had a lot of breastfeeding education and a lactation consultant. I was encouraged much more to breastfeed and was even given the information before I had the baby on how to get a pump before I went back to work. And of course I had the support of 12 weeks home with the baby. If I had that the first two times I might have been able to breastfeed them this long.
Occasionally, I feel a twinge of regret over the fact that I didn't nurse Evie and Elly. But I am not one of those people who likes to dedicate time and energy to the what-if's and should-have's. They're healthy. Seem to be fairly normal, functional kids. So all in all, I did alright. Right?
Being a mom of three, I had a lot more internal support as well. I knew that I would have to let a lot of things go when baby #3 came. Laundry might pile up. Floors might be sticky. Dishes may go unwashed. It will all be okay. I knew going in that I wouldn't sleep...Ever. Again. And I just accepted it. One day they will be teenagers and I will be waking their butts up at the crack of dawn. Revenge will be sweet. But babies need to eat. And babies need to eat around the clock. When babies need to eat they cry. I felt like breastfeeding was something I could probably do. Or at least try really hard to do. And since this would be my last baby, I felt like it was something I needed to give a good effort.
So I did it. And when I felt like I couldn't, I frantically called, messaged and texted people. I cried and I called and texted more. I got a lactation consultant involved. And then I got another lactation consultant involved. Baby grew and things got easier. Eventually nursing got easier and I felt comfortable with adding pumping into the regimen. Pumping still sucks. But I stick with it because it makes the rest possible.
My original goal of one year is in sight. And I have extended my breastfeeding plans to two years. At least. No, I don't plan on having a kindergartner nursling. But I have read so many articles and have taken in so much information about breastfeeding that I simply don't believe that one year is the age to wean. When you look at other species and the age when a mother naturally weans her baby, you see functioning juveniles who can largely fend for themselves in their society. Think about 8 week old puppies or yearling colts. They eat the same food the adults do. They walk, talk, able to hold their bladder enough not to pee on themselves every few minutes. They are members of their pack or herd. Compare that to the functionality of a one year old. Many one year-olds are neither walking nor talking. Not beyond a weak toddle and a bunch of baby gibberish. Doctors around the world have found that the nutrition found in breast milk is needed well beyond the 12 month mark. Not only do they need the nutrition and the antibodies and the vitamins, the physical and psychological comfort are invaluable and difficult to measure. The World Health Organization now recommends that mothers breastfeed for the first two years. And then as long after that as the mother and baby are happy.
Nursing Elisabeth is still going well. On days I work, she nurses frequently. Two or three times in the morning before work. Then two or three in the evening when we are home. Then once or twice at night. She is the sweetest baby too. She always wants to touch my face or rub my arm while she nurses. Though sometimes she also wants to try and put her foot in my mouth. Or pull on my eye lashes. (I dont get it, but she thinks it's HILARIOUS.)
As she gets older, I can tell a difference between the times she wants to nurse because she's hungry and the times she wants to nurse because she missed me or she fell down or she's tired or she's teething or she doesn't feel good or...well, the list goes on. The bee-bee's are the magical miracle cure to whatever ails her. I feel like nursing is as close to recreating the womb as a baby can get. That's why newborns relish in it. Why babies get that blissed out look when they nurse. It's adorable. And I totally understand that the real world is really difficult for them and any wonderful, warm, happy, belly-full place for them is a happy one. Even at 10 months, sometimes Elisabeth just needs that warm comfort. Needs to be warm and safe and have mommy's smell and mommy's heartbeat close.
I am proud that we have made it this far. I hope things continue to go well for us. But if something were to happen, I can take pride in the fact that we made it this long. I love the feeling of snuggling up to a warm baby and snoozing a bit while she nurses herself back to sleep. I love the big grins she gives while she smacks her lips and pats me after she nurses. And I feel cherished when she cries "mama" and holds her hands up for me, then when I pick her up, immediately rests her tear-streaked cheeks on my shoulder while she pats my back and hugs me tight.
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
Just a "remember" now...
I remember the day that I asked my mom for a baby sister. We were in the kitchen in the farm house. She was busy doing something. Washing dishes maybe? Cooking? I'm not sure. I remember the slant of the sun through the windows. And green fields stretching out of view outside. I remember dust motes in the air. I think something was cooking. Maybe it was supper time. I don't know if it was the first, the last, the only time. But I remember it. I don't remember why I thought I wanted a sister. I was certainly never very good at sharing. I liked baby dolls and playing momma. And I liked playing with other kids at school. Maybe I had it in my head that sisterhood was like that. A nice controlled, nuetral setting with a very definitive start and end time.
I remember sitting in the hospital the day that Ethan was born. I remember knowing that something wasn't right, though not being old enough to comprehend the potential consequences of something being wrong. I just knew the adults were fidgety. We had to wait too long. I don't know if I saw my mom or my new brother that day or not.
I remember having a Kool Aid fight in the kitchen. We were given juice boxes and Momma left the room to take a phone call. The bright red juice covered the walls. The fridge. The beautiful black and white tile floor. We were in so much trouble.
I remember a bobble-head dog that was broken when Ethan and I were running through the house. Playing one wild game or another. The terrified looks on our faces when it hit the floor. The elaborate re-glue and pretend it never happened job.
I remember days, weeks and even months spent wandering trails and bush-whacking our way through thick briars and underbrush as we roamed the acres of unmolested property surrounding our little farm house. The afternoons walking home from the bus stop and making our way down the mile long driveway to our home. Snow angels and snow men. Mucking stalls and tending critters. Riding double on horses. Days spent bouncing on trampolines. Evenings spent on a carport making up spooky stories.
I remember a little boy with dark blue eyes and the curliest blonde hair. Curls so pretty they brought a tear to your eye to see them cut. Freckled skin that sunburnt too easily. He always had a big, toothy smile. He liked to read. He was never as into horses as I was. Or into sports. He liked video games and computers (once we had one). He was brilliant. I remember teaching him algebra and reading him books when he was way too young for such things.
There were dark days in our childhood. Days, weeks and even months shadowed by an angry stepfather who liked to yell and hit and when he was drunk. Afternoons we spent hiding out in the woods, pretending we didn't know he was looking for us. We developed a silly bird call so we could locate other. Tried to stay out of his way. We learned how to keep our heads down and get our chores done and that kept us out of trouble most of the time. Eventually, the stepfather was gone and things were good.
Ethan got older. He went through an awkward phase. One where he was chubbier than he was happy with. He had to get braces that made him feel even more awkward and caused him pain. He moved to high school where he felt that being smart wasn't "cool." And his grades didn't win him friends with the crowd he wanted to hang out with.
One day we woke up and Ethan was over 6 feet tall. He was lean and tough. He didn't have the good grades he was so proud of when we were little. He got into a lot of trouble and he did a lot of yelling. Suddenly the little boy who was so happy being momma's, needed to prove he wasn't a momma's boy. Needed to prove he was a man. Needed to prove...something. He got arrested. He shoplifted. He damaged school property. He huffed gasoline.
Ethan stopped resembling the little boy I knew and became a man that I didn't recognize. Someone I couldn't let around my kids. Someone I was afraid to talk to. Because you never knew what kind of state he would be in. Or what he might talk about. Someone so angry and so miserable and so full of hurt.
And now, both the boy and the man are gone. Tomorrow is his memorial service.
I will always remember the blonde curls and the blue eyes. The little boy who followed me relentlessly, even when I wanted him to go away. Always a jokester. Funny to a fault. Sensitive and big-hearted. That will always be my little brother.
Most days, I didn't know how to wrap my head around the man he became. Now that he is gone, I don't think I ever will. I know he has peace now. I know he finally has found an inner calm and a clarity and solace that he couldn't find here. I look at pictures of him and I have a hard time believing that he's gone. After all, there isn't a daily void in my life with his passing. We didn't speak often. But he is. And while I do find myself wishing I could just tell him one more time that I loved him. That I could give him one more hug and feel how tall and grown and solid he was. I find comfort in knowing that his life is better now. He is better now. It's not goodbye. It's see you later.
Rest easy, sweet boy.
Ethan Douglas Funk
April 14, 1990 - December 15, 2013
I remember sitting in the hospital the day that Ethan was born. I remember knowing that something wasn't right, though not being old enough to comprehend the potential consequences of something being wrong. I just knew the adults were fidgety. We had to wait too long. I don't know if I saw my mom or my new brother that day or not.
I remember having a Kool Aid fight in the kitchen. We were given juice boxes and Momma left the room to take a phone call. The bright red juice covered the walls. The fridge. The beautiful black and white tile floor. We were in so much trouble.
I remember a bobble-head dog that was broken when Ethan and I were running through the house. Playing one wild game or another. The terrified looks on our faces when it hit the floor. The elaborate re-glue and pretend it never happened job.
I remember days, weeks and even months spent wandering trails and bush-whacking our way through thick briars and underbrush as we roamed the acres of unmolested property surrounding our little farm house. The afternoons walking home from the bus stop and making our way down the mile long driveway to our home. Snow angels and snow men. Mucking stalls and tending critters. Riding double on horses. Days spent bouncing on trampolines. Evenings spent on a carport making up spooky stories.
I remember a little boy with dark blue eyes and the curliest blonde hair. Curls so pretty they brought a tear to your eye to see them cut. Freckled skin that sunburnt too easily. He always had a big, toothy smile. He liked to read. He was never as into horses as I was. Or into sports. He liked video games and computers (once we had one). He was brilliant. I remember teaching him algebra and reading him books when he was way too young for such things.
There were dark days in our childhood. Days, weeks and even months shadowed by an angry stepfather who liked to yell and hit and when he was drunk. Afternoons we spent hiding out in the woods, pretending we didn't know he was looking for us. We developed a silly bird call so we could locate other. Tried to stay out of his way. We learned how to keep our heads down and get our chores done and that kept us out of trouble most of the time. Eventually, the stepfather was gone and things were good.
Ethan got older. He went through an awkward phase. One where he was chubbier than he was happy with. He had to get braces that made him feel even more awkward and caused him pain. He moved to high school where he felt that being smart wasn't "cool." And his grades didn't win him friends with the crowd he wanted to hang out with.
One day we woke up and Ethan was over 6 feet tall. He was lean and tough. He didn't have the good grades he was so proud of when we were little. He got into a lot of trouble and he did a lot of yelling. Suddenly the little boy who was so happy being momma's, needed to prove he wasn't a momma's boy. Needed to prove he was a man. Needed to prove...something. He got arrested. He shoplifted. He damaged school property. He huffed gasoline.
Ethan stopped resembling the little boy I knew and became a man that I didn't recognize. Someone I couldn't let around my kids. Someone I was afraid to talk to. Because you never knew what kind of state he would be in. Or what he might talk about. Someone so angry and so miserable and so full of hurt.
And now, both the boy and the man are gone. Tomorrow is his memorial service.
I will always remember the blonde curls and the blue eyes. The little boy who followed me relentlessly, even when I wanted him to go away. Always a jokester. Funny to a fault. Sensitive and big-hearted. That will always be my little brother.
Most days, I didn't know how to wrap my head around the man he became. Now that he is gone, I don't think I ever will. I know he has peace now. I know he finally has found an inner calm and a clarity and solace that he couldn't find here. I look at pictures of him and I have a hard time believing that he's gone. After all, there isn't a daily void in my life with his passing. We didn't speak often. But he is. And while I do find myself wishing I could just tell him one more time that I loved him. That I could give him one more hug and feel how tall and grown and solid he was. I find comfort in knowing that his life is better now. He is better now. It's not goodbye. It's see you later.
Rest easy, sweet boy.
Ethan Douglas Funk
April 14, 1990 - December 15, 2013
NEWS FLASH: Boobs aren't for the men in your life (unless that man is the small, hairless, diaper wearing variety...)
This may comes as a shocker. A revelation. A parting of the veil. But breasts weren't actually put there for sex.
Yes. I said it. I used both the "b" word and the "s" word in one sentence. And I said something that, if it came to light in mainstream media, could destroy the lingerie industry, the magazine industry...well, the very fabric of our society could devastated!
Yes. Breasts are NOT for sex. But shh, don't tell anyone else!
If you pay any mind to what's trending on the interweb, you may notice the occasional surge of breastfeeding in the media. Last week, there was a lot of controversy over an Instagram post by Gisele Bundchen. She posted a shot of herself, nursing her one year-old daughter surrounded by her team of stylists who were doing her hair, nails and make up. All while she sat in complete serenity in her beautiful white robe. Mothers every where were outraged! How dare she be so brazen! How dare she try to act like that is "normal!" How dare she be so beautiful! Wait...I guess no one took credit for that last little bit of outrage. I thought, "Man, that would be phenomenal!" Not because she had her glam-squad getting her all glitzy. No, in my world, that would be a colossal waste of time. Chipped nails and frizzy hair pulled in a pony tail and an extra thirty minutes washing my face that night. No thanks. What I found myself jealous of was how natural, beautiful, at ease she was...doing the most natural thing in the world AND working.
Now, I don't want to take my baby to work. I mean, sure that would be neat...for about the first five minutes. But I am incredibly fortunate to have been able to pump and continue nursing after I returned from maternity leave. Most of the people I work with have been not only accepting, but supporting of my decision to nurse my child. Not every mother has such a luxury. Many women aren't able to take maternity leave to even try to get nursing established before they head back into the work force. So I suppose I have been doubly blessed.
Even beyond my great luck with pumping, I have survived many nursing sessions in public without issue. No one has asked me to leave the establishment. No one has screamed in horror. Nope. No problems. And none should be expected...because nursing babies is what boobs are for.
Here I go again. Throwing around those radical, liberal notions! But seriously. What do you think God put them there for? Since it tends to be the right wing, conservative Bible-thumpers who get up in arms about a woman exposing her breasts in public let's think about this...do you think when God made Adam and Eve, He also made a nursing bra and nursing cover, making sure to give Eve detailed instructions for their use?
Uhh. No. The Bible says that Adam and Eve were naked and they were unashamed. They didn't feel any shame for their bodies until after they had tasted the forbidden fruit. Now, I'm not saying we all need to be walking around naked. I totally support some decent threads. Though I'm also not bashing the different social norms for what passes as "decent." The aborigines have a much more natural point-of-view than Western society. In fact, those women cannot believe how flabbergasted our men are at the sight of breasts. Their men are quite accustomed to seeing naked breasts on a daily basis. Frequently those breasts are doing what they were designed to do, i.e. feeding babies, but sometimes they're just there. And their men don't even pay it a bit of mind!
I know if a woman were to walk around Walmart without a shirt on, it wouldn't take two minutes for the police to be called, management to be scrambled...I'm sure you can imagine. And of course, there would likely be the same response if a woman were to be walking through Walmart feeding her baby. The outrage! The horror!
What if my poor children were to see that woman's naked breast?!? What if my husband were to see that woman's naked breast?!? What if I were to see that woman's naked breast?!?
Really people? If your child sees a woman feeding her baby, then tell that child that woman is using those things for what the good Lord put them there for. Tell your child she is feeding her baby! What would you say if your child asked about a mom bottle feeding an infant? Would you blow up and tell the woman she needs to have some decency? Of course not! I'm not saying nursing moms need to rub their lifestyle choices in everyone else's face. But a little mutual respect and curtesy from both sides of the fence would go a long ways! Maybe even a decent helping of common sense?
If a woman is required to cover up to breastfeed her child then women should be requied to cover up when they bottle feed as well. That's only fair after all. I'm sure you're thinking that is about the most ridiculous thing you've ever heard but think about it. Which is the natural way to feed a baby? The breast, which is designed to feed a child and caters its daily supply to what the child needs, adjusting vitamins and nutrients as needed? Or a plastic bottle with a rubber nipple filled with formula manufactured from cow's milk?
So next time you encounter a nursing momma, how about you take a moment. Instead of a snide comment, what about a supportive smile? Instead of being offended, maybe even offer a kind word? Being a mom is hard. Having a baby is hard. Breastfeeding is not easy! I never feel smug or condescending towards a mom feeding her baby from a bottle. Why should another mom feel anything but comraderie and support for me? We are all just trying to do what is best for our baby!
Yes. I said it. I used both the "b" word and the "s" word in one sentence. And I said something that, if it came to light in mainstream media, could destroy the lingerie industry, the magazine industry...well, the very fabric of our society could devastated!
Yes. Breasts are NOT for sex. But shh, don't tell anyone else!
If you pay any mind to what's trending on the interweb, you may notice the occasional surge of breastfeeding in the media. Last week, there was a lot of controversy over an Instagram post by Gisele Bundchen. She posted a shot of herself, nursing her one year-old daughter surrounded by her team of stylists who were doing her hair, nails and make up. All while she sat in complete serenity in her beautiful white robe. Mothers every where were outraged! How dare she be so brazen! How dare she try to act like that is "normal!" How dare she be so beautiful! Wait...I guess no one took credit for that last little bit of outrage. I thought, "Man, that would be phenomenal!" Not because she had her glam-squad getting her all glitzy. No, in my world, that would be a colossal waste of time. Chipped nails and frizzy hair pulled in a pony tail and an extra thirty minutes washing my face that night. No thanks. What I found myself jealous of was how natural, beautiful, at ease she was...doing the most natural thing in the world AND working.
Now, I don't want to take my baby to work. I mean, sure that would be neat...for about the first five minutes. But I am incredibly fortunate to have been able to pump and continue nursing after I returned from maternity leave. Most of the people I work with have been not only accepting, but supporting of my decision to nurse my child. Not every mother has such a luxury. Many women aren't able to take maternity leave to even try to get nursing established before they head back into the work force. So I suppose I have been doubly blessed.
Even beyond my great luck with pumping, I have survived many nursing sessions in public without issue. No one has asked me to leave the establishment. No one has screamed in horror. Nope. No problems. And none should be expected...because nursing babies is what boobs are for.
Here I go again. Throwing around those radical, liberal notions! But seriously. What do you think God put them there for? Since it tends to be the right wing, conservative Bible-thumpers who get up in arms about a woman exposing her breasts in public let's think about this...do you think when God made Adam and Eve, He also made a nursing bra and nursing cover, making sure to give Eve detailed instructions for their use?
Uhh. No. The Bible says that Adam and Eve were naked and they were unashamed. They didn't feel any shame for their bodies until after they had tasted the forbidden fruit. Now, I'm not saying we all need to be walking around naked. I totally support some decent threads. Though I'm also not bashing the different social norms for what passes as "decent." The aborigines have a much more natural point-of-view than Western society. In fact, those women cannot believe how flabbergasted our men are at the sight of breasts. Their men are quite accustomed to seeing naked breasts on a daily basis. Frequently those breasts are doing what they were designed to do, i.e. feeding babies, but sometimes they're just there. And their men don't even pay it a bit of mind!
I know if a woman were to walk around Walmart without a shirt on, it wouldn't take two minutes for the police to be called, management to be scrambled...I'm sure you can imagine. And of course, there would likely be the same response if a woman were to be walking through Walmart feeding her baby. The outrage! The horror!
What if my poor children were to see that woman's naked breast?!? What if my husband were to see that woman's naked breast?!? What if I were to see that woman's naked breast?!?
Really people? If your child sees a woman feeding her baby, then tell that child that woman is using those things for what the good Lord put them there for. Tell your child she is feeding her baby! What would you say if your child asked about a mom bottle feeding an infant? Would you blow up and tell the woman she needs to have some decency? Of course not! I'm not saying nursing moms need to rub their lifestyle choices in everyone else's face. But a little mutual respect and curtesy from both sides of the fence would go a long ways! Maybe even a decent helping of common sense?
If a woman is required to cover up to breastfeed her child then women should be requied to cover up when they bottle feed as well. That's only fair after all. I'm sure you're thinking that is about the most ridiculous thing you've ever heard but think about it. Which is the natural way to feed a baby? The breast, which is designed to feed a child and caters its daily supply to what the child needs, adjusting vitamins and nutrients as needed? Or a plastic bottle with a rubber nipple filled with formula manufactured from cow's milk?
So next time you encounter a nursing momma, how about you take a moment. Instead of a snide comment, what about a supportive smile? Instead of being offended, maybe even offer a kind word? Being a mom is hard. Having a baby is hard. Breastfeeding is not easy! I never feel smug or condescending towards a mom feeding her baby from a bottle. Why should another mom feel anything but comraderie and support for me? We are all just trying to do what is best for our baby!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)