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My first "baby" turns 10 in a few months. This was the baby who I thought would never sleep through the night. She still doesn't need as much sleep as her siblings. She frequently stays up way too late with her nose in a book. She remains a night owl and is quite good at stalling the bedtime routine, but once she's out, she's out. I can tuck her in, plant a soft kiss on her forehead, and say good-night, and she actually stays put in her bed and goes to sleep on her own. Once upon a time I thought this would be impossible.
But as I wrote in this essay – which is eight-ish years-old now – it's important for us to remind our exhausted or frustrated or burned out selves that "this too shall pass." You won't always emanate Eau du Breastmilk. You will sleep for more than three fragmented hours. Repeat after me: This too shall pass.
My little boy is very challenging right now, but I know he won't always be hurling toys at his sister. I know now, too, that his physical outbursts aren't red flags that he's going to lead a life of delinquency. He is a normal, active, almost 3-year-old boy going through a very normal, albeit exhausting, stage. Despite the tantrums and unprovoked attacks, I'm trying to soak his littleness up – not so much the hair-pulling or screeching – but the sweetness of his age like how he calls me "Mama" and holds my hand and says, "Carry me! Carry me!" when he's tired or needs to feel safe or loved. He won't always need these arms of mine so much, and there are moments when the idea of not being needed so much feels like a big relief. But looking at my big girl and how she just keeps getting taller and needing me less and less is a reminder of how brief this hands-on mothering period really is.
Anyway, this post is dedicated to my friend on the eve of postpartum fatigue, any new parents out there, anyone who has given birth to an insomniac, and to my beautiful, oldest daughter.
If I were to write a bedtime story right now, it might go something like this:
In the great green room, there was a telephone, a deflated birthday balloon from a party two weeks ago, and a frustrated mom whose brain has turned to mush and is snarling, "Hush."
Goodnight blasted moon. Goodnight messy room. Goodnight everybody…except for this squirming, little insomniac. Goodnight stars. Goodnight air. Goodnight noises everywhere. (Will all the airplanes please stop flying so my child's supersonic hearing won't pick up the slightest humming of their engines?)
As my due date draws closer, I'm starting to panic. Not because I'm afraid of pushing out another baby, although it would be nice to be a panda. During a recent visit to the zoo, Madeline and I learned that the Giant Panda gives birth to a baby about 1/900th of its size. So this 200-pound bear has to squeeze out a cub about the size of a stick of butter. I bet she doesn't have to worry about getting any hemorrhoids.
Nor am I worried about a floppy head, pulsating soft spot, crusty umbilical cord stump or changing a half-dozen mustardy-poopy diapers a day.
What I am worried about is transforming into a walking, sleep-deprived "mombie" or worse a terrible, short-fused parent who yells more than laughs. When I was pregnant with Madeline, I expected sleepless nights. Restful sleep and newborns generally don't go hand-in-hand. With this baby, I've once again braced myself for nighttime nursing and an alarm clock that doesn't stop buzzing (or should I say wailing?) just because you feel like you've been run over by a Mack truck. What I didn't prepare myself for was an energetic 2-year-old whose baby days are behind her but who still insists on waking up every couple of hours.
Although Madeline has never been what you'd call a good sleeper, we'd made tremendous progress. We'd established a relaxing bedtime routine and she was sleeping nearly 12 blissful hours most nights and taking a nap. Life was good.
Then, about three weeks ago, something happened and she's decided that being in the horizontal position is akin to the apocalypse. To Madeline, bedtime certainly is an end, if not the end of the world, the end to fun, the end to interacting with the people she loves the most, and the end to a secure, well-lit kingdom where killer bumblebees (her latest nightmare subject) don't menacingly buzz nearby.
Her boycott against sleep began subtly. First, she became a professional staller during our once peaceful bedtime routine. "One more book, peaaaaaaassssss." "Use potty, peaaaaasssss." "Thirsty. Go get water, peaaaaaaaaas. Just one more itty-bitty sip." "Ma-Ma [she refers to herself in third person as "Ma-Ma] scared, Mommy. Turn light on, peeaaasssss. Stay with me, peaaaaaassss."
And so on.
This was frustrating but manageable. But when it came time to try to transition her to a big-girl bed, we discovered just how tenacious our little girl was. I made a big deal over the move, bought a comforter, decorated the bed with some throw pillows and showed off her big-girl roost to the grandparents. She resisted falling asleep the first night we curled up in her new bed, but when she did finally drift off to the Land of Nod, she stayed there for a good ten hours.
"Wow. That was easy," I remember thinking.
Foolish, foolish woman!
Madeline knows that a big-girl bed has no boundaries – at least physical ones. So she pays frequent homage to Mommy and Daddy's bed, which I wouldn't mind so much if it also didn't take me 2.8 hours to get her to sleep and if she didn't like waking me up in the middle of my slumber to carry on a little tête-à-tête.
In fact, the first time she crawled into our bed Dave and I were happy to have our sweet angel wedged between us. We've never been against co-sleeping. We slept with our little one nearly every night that first year; yet, Madeline is fidgety and didn't sleep well beside us. We definitely didn't sleep too well either.
The night started out peacefully enough. I woke up when she threw her arm across my face, but I rolled over too tired to really care. This isn't so bad, I thought. She feels so warm and cozy next to me.
My feelings of tranquility abruptly dissipated when half of Madeline's foot ended up in my butt and her face was burrowing into Dave's abs. We looked like a big "H," and like that co-sleeping meme pointed out, "H" most definitely is for hell when you're not sleeping. All nightlong she squirmed and sometimes even woke up enough to try to strike up a conversation. Meanwhile, I tried to ignore the baby's nightly kung-fu fighting routine in my womb. I slept far less than 40 winks – maybe two, at most.
This was not going to work.
Time for Plan B, so I set up a cozy pallet beside our bed. "Madeline, see this bed on the floor. If you wake up and want to be near Mommy and Daddy, you can come here and sleep."
She nodded and amazingly, this worked the next night. I woke up to pee after feeling my little yogi do a headstand on my bladder and discovered Madeline sprawled across the pallet sleeping soundly.
Woo-hoo! Two points for Mommy!
That was the last time I scored. Madeline definitely has the upper hand. Our little jack-in-the-box pops out of bed constantly. At first I tried the gentle but firm approach of immediately putting her back to bed after each rising. "Madeline, it's bedtime. I love you."
I'd read that it might take a few nights of doing this 20 or so times each. On the first night I lost count at 67. Even though I'm a stickler for consistency, I finally gave in and toted my stupid and cheap body pillow (should have splurged on the expensive one) that's supposed to help my stupid third-trimester-preggo-bod sleep better (at this point, I think I'd need a heavy dose of valium) into her room and plopped next to her. She groped for my hand in the dark, found it, and held it close. The sweet gesture helped melt some of my frustrations, but when she fidgeted for another hour or so, I was ready to scream or cry – I'm not sure which.
Every night it's been something new, but I'm determined to overcome these bedtime battles. After combing the Internet and reading a great book on gently solving sleep problems of toddlers and preschoolers, I'm currently putting together a sleep plan and am hoping we'll be able to solve some of our shut-eye (or lack thereof) issues before I've got two nocturnal babes on my hands.
And yet, every time I finally get her to sleep – whether it's at bedtime or 3 a.m. – I can't help but stay awake a little bit longer to watch her doze. Maybe I just want to cherish the rare moment, though I suspect it's something more. Sleep is my obsession right now. I'll do anything to get her comatose. Yet, before I know it Madeline won't need me at night. One day I'll sneak in and stare at her sleeping form and I hope I'll see the baby again – the one I thought would never give me a moment's rest.
Our bedtime routine has become Dickensian for me. It is the best and the worst of times. The worst because I'm exhausted and will do anything I can to get my kids comatose. But it's the best, too. It's this long ritual that connects me to my children. The sun is setting and so, too,
All these phases we go through – even the bleary-eyed wakeful ones – are only blips in our history together. So the next time Madeline tugs on my hand in the wee morning or asks for the twentieth cup of water, I need to remind myself, "This too shall pass…and one day I'm going to miss it."]]>
Years ago I remember something a friend of mine had written about how nothing - NOTHING – compares to a 3-year-old boy. I believe she had been referring to the behavior of a 3-year-old boy in Mass. At the time, I had three girls, including one 3-year-old girl who was exhausting and infuriating me. I remember not wanting to fall into the comparison trap and to just accept that young children – no matter their gender – can be difficult. But I am starting to grasp what my friend was getting at. Thomas the Terror, as I affectionately refer to my almost 3-year-old boy silently in my head, is a different creature altogether than a little girl. Madeline was very active. We made up a Native American name for her – Hopping Cricket – because of her nonstop energy. She ran and jumped everywhere and refused to sleep, but it was still not the same as Thomas's level of physicality. She also did love to color rather than chucking crayons at my head as someone in our house might be guilty of doing on more than one occasion. Thomas plows into me daily, and I don't know whether to expect a bear-like hug or a linebacker tackle.
Overall in my little mothering world, I'd still say the most challenging child I've had to figure out thus far does have more than one x chromosome. That said, this toddler phase has never been quite as exhausting as it has been with my rough and tumble boy. Thomas had always been my best napper, which sometimes was difficult since gone are the days when I can remain cloistered at home like a total recluse with littles. My oldest is a gregarious, active one who has fallen in love with the sport of soccer. When I only had littles, life was more simple. There was story time at the library and playdates or park visits, but I stayed home a lot. Now we're on the move, so carving out time for Thomas to take his lengthy siesta wasn't always easy. Come summer, however, he decided to boycott naps. Every day I tenaciously attempt to get him to nap or at least mandate quiet time, but he's decided he's a big boy now. Only problem is, he's not. He's still very much a toddler who gets angry and unreasonable and just goes bezerk when he's tired. And he's always tired lately. We were grocery shopping recently, and I thought I had everything under control when Thomas sprinted off. (I've become one of those moms who plies her toddler with big lollipops to keep him happy – mothering has humbled me like nothing else. But on this particular trip, Thomas immediately tossed the lollipop. I thought about popping it back in his mouth, but I noticed a few black hairs on it and I had not yet reached that level of desperation.)
"Madeline, chase him down!" I shouted.
Off she went with her long legs sprinting toward her screeching brother. Her two sisters galloped behind her, eager to help herd their brother back to me. But for a little guy, he sure is speedy and agile. He continued to evade his big sisters.
When I could see the absolute futility of their efforts and when Thomas started shrieking even more loudly, I joined the chase. I eventually caught up to him (and the physical therapist told me not to sprint yet – ha!), but not before he'd proceeded to "pinch" six eggs. Yes, he was pinching eggs between two fingers and crushing them. The he wiped the yolk all over his shirt and looked at me with wide, surprised eyes. Sometimes he reminds me of Lennie from Of Mice and Men.
"They was so little," I can hear Thomas-Lennie saying. "I pet them, but I didn't mean to break them." When I tried to pay for the crushed eggs in addition the untouched eggs we actually needed to bring home, the clerk shook her head sympathetically. "Don't you worry about that," she said.
At this point, the girls were goofing off. They weren't really doing anything wrong – just being giggly and poking each other in the ribs here and there – but Thomas was shrieking again, and I was gritting my teeth, telling myself I would only make solo trips to the grocery store from here on out.
He's been having a rough time. He screams despite the fact that he is actually very verbal when he wants to be and can, in fact, use his words. He throws things. He kicks and pulls hair. (At least he doesn't bite. Knock on a big, old piece of wood for me now, would you?) When he goes boneless and I attempt to pick him up to bring him wherever he needs to be (oftentimes just inside the house), he seems to unleash all the wrath of the world upon me, and limbs are flying and those dimpled, little hands are grabbing fistfuls of my hair, and I am just praying I won't drop him or lose it myself. It's amazing how a toddler's fits of irrational madness and uncontrollable fury can lead a grown woman to start twitching, flushing, and clenching her jaw (maybe that's why the oral surgeon said I had more arthritis in my jaw than what is typical for a person of my age).
Even when he's happy, he careens into me with nearly enough force to knock me off my feet. He doesn't climb; he scales. He doesn't yell; he screeches. Life is amplified with him around.
But I'll tell you what he also does. He hijacks my heart on a daily basis. He spontaneously kisses me throughout the day. After dinner, he frequently says, "Thank you for making this for me, Mommy." He tells me I'm pretty. He cups my face into his hands and gazes into my eyes before pulling me in for a hug or a wet kiss. He cries when I do discipline and plaintively says sorry. He cuddles next to me at night and asks me to pick him up when he's tired, happy, or sad. He loves his mama fiercely, and I love him right back.
As big sister Mary Elizabeth remarked recently while simultaneously attempting to work through some of her kindergarten homeschool curriculum and dodge a rainbow of markers her brother was launching in her direction, "Thomas is complicated."
And so long as we're talking about Thomas, the other morning he put on a Darth Vader mask, which was a nice change since he's frequently sporting one of his sister's princess frocks, and said in a spooky voice, "I am a human. I am going to eat you up." He clearly knows nothing about Star Wars and has also confused the words "human" and "monster." He probably got the "eat you up" bit from Where the Wild Things Are, a favorite book of his. He is my little wild thing.
I continue to be incredibly humbled and honored to be a part of this project and do indeed feel like a special guest. To learn more about Momnipotent, click here.
Danielle Bean continues to do amazing work to support wives and mothers in their vocations, and I am blessed to call her a friend.
On another note, while my family lucky enough to be vacationing in the woods of Maine I received a message notifying me that someone had nominated me as a top stay-at-home mom blogger 0f 2014. Many thanks to my faithful remnant for your support and for thinking of my little corner of cyberspace.
I have a sweet friend who is in the throes of parental discernment and is agonizing (well, she's not actually one to agonize over anything; she's much more grounded than I, but this has been a tough decision for her) over a decision she needs to make for her child. She reached out to me because she knows I understand. Oh, do I ever. She asked me for words of wisdom. Words started gushing out (poor thing will probably never again ask me for pearls of wisdom since she's buried beneath an avalanche of quasi-wisdom right about now), and then I slowed down long enough to search my archives for a time I wrote about being faced with a difficult decision. This post is from 2011. Three years ago I was discerning about homeschooling specifically. I am still discerning. I'm not sure I'll ever stop the discernment process, and that's probably a good thing. This year two kids will be going to our parochial school, and two will remain home with me (one who is school-age).
It is funny how things have changed since I first wrote this post. Thomas is an active 2-year-old. The hobby I was most passionate about (running) has had to be put on the back burner because of an injury, and now would you believe it?
But I digress… The hobby I am really into these days is coloring. Nearly very morning the kids and I sit down to draw and color. I bought my own set of rainbow markers (since kids around here forget to put the caps on and markers tend to dry out too quickly). I specialize in bubble art like this:
I can't get enough of it. It's ridiculously calming. I have this need to create – perhaps because this is the first time in over a decade that I am not pregnant and/or nursing. My extended breastfeeding nursling weaned in December. Thomas self-weaned shortly before then. Oddly enough, I did have a major letdown the other day. My body just keeps on producing that miraculous cream that made me some fat babies.
No babies, but I am making lots of lots of bubble art. It's been a simple but fruitful hobby because it is intrinsically rewarding, which is good for a person like me who has spent so much of her life seeking external pats on the back.
What else has changed? There's sadly no more Faith & Family Podcast. I sure do miss regularly chatting to those amazing women. On the bright side, right now I don't feel particularly burned out (yay!) even though we are quickly approaching a very busy time of year, and my to-do list is quite lengthy. Sure, we have rough days. My book club recently read Unbroken: A World War II Story of Survival, Resilience, and Redemption (I highly recommend it),and I joked that Louis Zamperini could handle starvation, abuse, and other abject suffering, and it took one day for my kids to break me. Motherhood does indeed wear me out sometimes, but it also gives me ample joy. I even feel almost at peace with our educational decision. This is progress.
Anyway, in honor of my friend and all the moms out there who are struggling to make a decision or who are perhaps wondering if any other mom out there gets burned out or doesn't know what to do as far as school or whatever, this post from the past is for you. You're not alone.
I recently had the opportunity to chat with Lisa Hendey and Danielle Bean on the Faith & Family Podcast. I always look forward to these conversations because I walk away feeling empowered and encouraged. I learn so much from these wise, faithful women. I hope you will, too.
On this particular episode we talked about hobbies and the importance of downtime for moms and for their children. Then we moved on to asking for help and why so many of us moms have such a hard time accepting assistance from others. We also briefly touched upon how what might be helpful to one person – let's say occasional help with the littles like I've recently solicited – might not be the best fit for you.
We ran out of time before I could stress the importance of looking at your own needs and limitations and determining what would help you be the most joyful mom. That's why I've had to ask for help. I was missing out on some of the joy of being a mom. The chaos and exhaustion was leaving me completely depleted. I'd have a good day perhaps (or even a perfect week at the beach), but then I'd be back to feeling overwhelmed.
I haven't been writing about some of my recent struggles much because I'd rather not focus on the gook and because there are (almost) always rifts of light breaking through darkness. All that said, I've had some tough moments in the trenches of motherhood over the past few months.
The beach gave me respite. And, yes, there was grace. There always is. But there was also more sleep on vacation. Upon our return, my dad and I were joking and started singing, "Amazing Sleep. How great thou art." Forget the grace. Give me a night of uninterrupted sleep when none of the littles cry out or jab me in the ribs (or jab me in utero), and I'll be one gloriously happy (and gentle) mama.
A month or so ago there was one night where I cried to my own mama that I just wasn't enjoying motherhood like I once did. I hesitate to make this admission; it feels hopeless or selfish or annoying or something bad to say something so negative about the most sublime vocation of all. Yet, I believe most moms have been there – when our spirits feel crushed and our kids, while we know they are blessings and we love them like mad, feel like burdens that we just don't feel strong enough (or well-rested enough) to shoulder.
Maybe there are some moms who haven't ever felt that way – God bless you! However, one of the hallmark symptoms of burnout in my own mothering life is a lack of joy in being a mom.
Sure, being a mom is exhausting, challenging, and requires ample self-donation, but it's also supposed to bring you joy. It's not supposed to suck all the happiness out of you. When the joy seems out of reach, you're probably burnt out or depressed or not carrying His yoke or not following His will – or a combination of all these things. At least this has been my own experience. I probably shouldn't speak for others. We all have signs and symptoms that suggest something is out of whack spiritually, emotionally, mentally, and/or physically.
I remember another dark night when I was crying to my husband and I questioned why I couldn't handle things the way others mothers could (or the way I thought they could), and he reassured me that I was not weak. He reminded me of the ages of my children. He reminded me of the demanding nature of his work that meant I was frequently on my own in the parenting trenches. He reminded me of my own temperament. I was not less holy than other moms. I was me with my own life, interior struggles, and children with unique personalities. I needed to give myself a break. I needed to make decisions based on what would help me – not somebody else – to be a more joyful mom. And to always, always remember that what is important is what is good for me, not just what is simply good.
Having college students come in a few times a week to play with the kids while I write or rest or just grocery shop alone has been a real blessing. But I've needed to reassess some other things, too. During the podcast, I feel like I kept throwing the word "homeschooling" out there – like I was testing it out for the first time. ("My babysitter was homeschooled," I threw out there. Um, your point is? Actually, she mentioned her mom was feeling burntout, but she's been at it for 17 years!!! I can't imagine that.) Never mind I began researching homeschooling before I was even pregnant when I worked on-staff at a parenting publication. With Lisa and Danielle, I also briefly mentioned that I'd recently been discerning homeschooling and reevaluating if this really was the right calling for my family or just some ideal I wanted to live up to because I felt like it would somehow make me holier or more like Mrs. So-and-So whom I admire greatly and see as the paragon of piety. (I know it's not all about me; it's about my family, and I have to stop focusing so much on what I can and can't do, etc.) Homeschooling is good – very good – for a lot of families, but it may not be so good for other people. The question right of the moment is: Is it good for me, for our family, right now? I've been asking that question a lot lately.
When my husband started his residency, Madeline wasn't even two yet, but I somehow hooked up with a great group of homeschooling moms (a group called Totus Tuus). Gunner that I am, I went ahead and joined their homeschooling co-op, not because Madeline needed immense erudition (or any academics; she was learning through experiences and playing; she still is) but because I needed companionship and mom mentors. I was blessed with these things. I met some amazing women. Because I admired them and saw them as holy and wise and women I wanted to be like when "I grew up," I started piecing together this formula for sainthood based on their lives. It went something like this: At least half a dozen kids + homeschooling = near-saintliness.
I can write that now and see how limited my formula was. There are plenty of women whom I admire for their kindness and faith and mothering aptitude who don't homeschool, never did homeschool, and likely never will. Nor do they bring forth enough children to field a baseball team (my awesome mom being one of them). Then there are people who are called to the single life (my godmother being one) who serve others differently than I do. I have a wide range of friends who inspire me by living beautiful, peaceful, and holy lives, but the way they do that varies greatly.
Then there are the miscellany of saints: knights, hermits, nuns, mothers, intellectuals, farmers. That's what I have to keep reminding myself: That it's not following some prescribed formula that will guarantee living a grace-filled, joyful, and Godward life. God calls us all to holiness but in different ways. It's recognizing that God has a unique plan for me and then bending my own will and desire to try to follow it. It's not doing what others do or don't. It's not trying to live up to some ideal I've created in my perfectionist psyche. It's taking a deep breath, praying, facing my own limitations, asking myself (over and over): How can Katie Wicker become the best version of the person God created her to be?
So, yes, I've been discerning sending my oldest to school. Actually, discerning isn't really the right word. That would suggest some balance and a certain level of emotional and spiritual maturity that I seem to be lacking right about now. What I've really been doing is agonizing over it. I've started biting my nails again. I wake up almost every single night to start weighing the pros and cons. I've consulted homeschooling friends and non-homeschooling friends (thank you, Kris, Dorian, Nana, and Julie K.). I've met with the principal and office staff of our local parochial school. I've visited a Montessori school. I've talked and talked and talked to my husband and my parents. I've cried buckets of tears, feeling like I'll amount to a BIG, FAT failure if I quit homeschooling just because I'd made some silly promise to myself to stick with it. (Please note: I do not think anyone else is a failure if they never homeschool or decide to quit homeschooling. I only hold myself to these ridiculous standards. Like so many women, I am by far my own worst critic.)
My dad recently told me jumping into cold water is never easy because it's going to be jarring. It's going to take awhile to get used to it. "No matter what decicion you make," he said, "It may not feel great or 'right' at first."
But he and a good friend also reminded me I'm not making some permanent, lifelong decision. We can decide something for today and then prayerfully change our minds tomorrow.
It's just that I want to be comfortable. I want my kids to be comfortable. I don't want any of us to feel any aftershocks or to feel like we should have never jumped into the water in the first place.
But I no longer want to feel like I'm always treading water either, just barely keeping my head above the surface.
What I do want is the perfect education for my child – one that's flexible, brimming with faith, enlivens her natural curiosity, gives her time to run and be wild as is her nature but also plenty of time to be with her sisters and her mommy and daddy. Can someone please start a Catholic Montessori school in my area? Oh, that would be an absolute dream come true. So long as we're talking wish lists, I also want a toddler who starts napping again like she used to for two blissful hours each day and a preschooler who doesn't fall apart in the afternoon and use her hands to hit rather than her words to speak. I want my oldest to be happy, to thrive. I want my whole family to thrive – myself notwithstanding.
How do I make that happen? I don't. Not on my own, anyway. It's not all on me or up to me. Still, there are decisions I need to make along with my husband.
Madeline recently attended an all-day camp, and my gregarious girl did thrive off all the perpetual activity and interaction with others. I missed her tremendously, but I admit I also enjoyed the slower pace I kept with my little ones. So that got me seriously thinking about school. (I'd considered it before, but I'd always quickly pushed it aside and been fairly content with our decision to homeschool.) I don't like busy work, but this busy bee of mine might be happy with busy work. She's certainly happy keeping busy. All. Of. The. Time.
People who know my big girl well said she'd love the school setting. I know they're probably right. But what about our family as a whole? What is best for us? How will I be able to squeeze any school in with a 2-year-old, 4-year-old, 6-year-old, and newborn? Am I trying to do too much? At the start of our first year of homeschooling, the answer was definitely a yes. I look back at the ridiculous grid I created with every block of time mapped out. There would be weekly tea parties, daily narrations a la Charlotte Mason, picture study, afternoons listening to classical music, poetry Fridays, arts and craft time, weekly chunks set aside to immerse ourselves in nature. Have we done some of these things? Oh yes! But on a weekly basis? Ha. No way.
We've had some really good days lately. Very, very good days, in fact. Yet, I haven't been worried about schooling at all. We're taking a break. So it's easy to blame homeschooling for my feelings of being overwhelmed since I've felt the joy of motherhood again not having to have that stupid grid taunt me about everything I didn't accomplish.
Gosh, it feels good to just enjoy your kids and to not have any shred of anxiety about if they're learning enough. Life is learning. I've always believed that, but I try to cram too much into life too often. There's often no room for learning, just rushing. Or at least that's the way I sometimes feel lately.
I'm dreaming of meeting our newest baby. He/she kicks. I feel a thud inside that's getting stronger by the day, and I know it won't be long. My midwife says given my history of premature dilation, I'll likely have this baby in nine or ten weeks. I smile. My hand drifts to my belly. Then I panic. I'm barely treading water now, remember. How in the world am I going to take care of all these littles and educate my oldest while still squeezing in some ABC time for my preschooler? I start to consider unschooling – how beautiful, how simple! But Type Aers like me don't know how to unschool. We don't know how to UN-anything.
My goal for this pregnancy has been to avoid the bedrest sentence I had to answer to my previous two pregnancies; yet, sometimes I find myself pining for time spent in the horizontal position (providing the baby would still come out not too early and be perfectly healthy). Of course, I know if I am put on bedrest, I'll be kicking myself for ever thinking that I wanted to to be on my side all daylong watching others manage my home and feeling helpless when my little ones needed their mama.
Where am I at now? After many prayers and tears and nail-biting and long talks with my amazing, supportive husband, we've decided to homeschool for at least one more year but to really, really take a good, long hard look at the parochial school in our area and if it might be a positive possibility for our family down the road as well as the explore and weigh all of our options. And as my husband keeps reminding me: Aren't we so lucky to have options? I admit, too, that hearing my oldest break into sobs at the thought of having to leave the newborn baby (Madeline could hold babies all daylong; this is one activity that does seem to keep her still) did have a bit of influence on our decision.
So I've dipped my toe into the water. It is cold. It's dark. I don't know what's beneath the surface. I'm scared. Terrified, really. I don't know how a fourth baby is going to affect our homeschooling rhythm. I've never liked schedules; I've always preferred to have a rhythm to our day. But it's felt out of whack lately, and we don't even have a little, wakeful newborn around here yet.
Still, I feel better now that a decision has been made. My nails are growing a tad longer again.
As for parenting joy, I'm happy a lot of the times. I do notice all the little yet remarkable things that make mothering such a gift. I do love writing journal entries to my girls where I pause and tell them about the details of our days, what I notice about them at that moment in their growing and changing life. However, I'm not going to pretend that I don't feel overwhelmed a lot, too. Is it just me? I'm tempted to think so, but that's foolish. Most moms are overwhelmed at certain points of their lives. Maybe we have different stressors and triggers, but this all-consuming mothering gig brings us to our knees, doesn't it? We can't do it alone. I have to stop trying so hard to just that.
I also have to make a daily downtime a requirement. My 2-year-old has stopped napping, but I'm making daily quiet time for all of us – even Hopping Cricket Madeline – non-negotiable. (This was something I'd once been very strict about, but it had fallen by the wayside since we moved last summer.) So much of my restlessness is rooted in my stubborn refusal to rest. I'm grateful for the amazing summer babysitter we have right now who paints outside with my kids and sprays them off with the hose and gives them messy moments that their hot and tired and very pregnant mama just can't say yes to right now. I'm grateful for any rest I can get. (But I don't really want to be on bedrest. Not that it's my choice.)
I'm also reminding myself that my worth and measure as a mom, a Catholic, a wife, and simply human being is not dependent on any particular decision I make for my children. As far as homeschooling is concerned, I'm taking it year by year, child by child. That's always been my motto. And right now I'm focusing on my daily plan, my daily graces, and my daily trust. Give us this day our daily bread. No marathon running for me at this season of my life (metaphorically or not). Baby steps. Small steps walked at my own pace with my own gait. Slow and steady. Grab the grace, a friend recently tweeted to me. Grabbing fistfuls of it now.
Nevertheless, the reason I keep the app is simple: The workouts are challenging and free (the app is free to download as well), and they also incorporate a lot of Pilates, something myriad health professionals have encouraged me to continue to do as I tirelessly attempt to rehab the injury-that-will-never-go-away*.
The app also comes with recipes, workouts, and a forum. I never paid much attention to the forum component, but a few months ago we were on a longer car trip and I started perusing through the "Before & After" section. I will tell you right now that if you struggle with your body image (or ever have), or you have suffered from an eating disorder in the past, this is probably not the best place for you. I'm not sure it's a great place for any woman to spend much time, given how it's so body-centric and gives girls a chance to compare themselves to hundreds of half-dressed women.
To be fair, there were some women who really seemed to be using the before and after photographs as healthy motivation. They have lost the weight and/or toned up in a healthy, balanced manner. The community was also mostly very encouraging. There was one young woman who only posted a "before" picture along with the comment "my body is disgusting, but I'm going to change that." Someone immediately responded, "Your body is not disgusting. It's going to be hard to make healthy changes if you don't love yourself first." Agreed. There were also girls desperately trying to achieve what seems to be the Holy Grail of Beauty right now – the elusive thigh gap. But for every young woman lusting over one, there were two or three telling her this is an unrealistic goal for most women and is based more on bone structure than fitness.
So the "Before & After" section certainly wasn't exclusively black hole of negativity. What's more, taking a before and after photos as you embark on a healthy lifestyle makeover rather than fixating on the number on the scale can be quite beneficial, but I would recommend keeping the photos private. Of course, for some sharing progress with others helps hold them accountable. In fact, the idea of a "social media diet" is growing, thanks to websites and apps like My Fitness Pal and Lose it! to But like so many things in life, you have to know yourself, your temptations, and be vigilant about ensuring what may have healthy potential doesn't morph into something that leads you to unhealthy comparisons, vanity, and/or obsessiveness.
Personally, while I could recognize some good coming out of this particular social media "Before & After" forum, I also saw a whole lot of bad. Somewhere in the back of mind, I started to look at one young woman's enviable midsection and wonder why my efforts to strengthen my core were not resulting in that streamlined, muscled look. (Ironically, my "efforts to strengthen my core" have been successful even if you don't see it based upon how long I can hold a plank these days without earthquake-like body tremors.) If you clicked on the username, you would learn that the "woman" was all but 15. A mom of four inching closer to 40 every day was actually comparing herself to that of a 15-year-old in a moment of absurdity. I wasn't the only one making unwise comparisons. Many of the girls on the forum were asking questions like, "How did you get your thigh gap?" and "What can I do to have abs like yours?" All of these girls were looking to others for inspiration instead of looking within themselves and asking themselves, What can I – with my own gifts and natural design – do to live the fullest, most healthful life possible?
I don't like admitting that I was actually on a fitness "Before & After" forum comparing myself to adolescents, but I can bet I'm not alone. Maybe most women don't go so far as to seek out a forum full of fitness photos, but most of us fall prey to comparing ourselves to someone somewhere. Perhaps it's someone in the media or on the cover of a magazine you glance at while checking out at the grocery store. Or it's the fit neighbor who runs by your house every day. Or it's the beautiful mom who doesn't look like she just had a baby whom you meet at a playdate. Or it's the "friend of a friend" on Facebook who posts her smiling, lovely face and her status update: "Soaking up the Mediterranean sun and getting the tan of my life." Or maybe you're looking at pictures of you – maybe it's the "thin" you from that day long ago when you didn't have varicose veins or maybe it's the "current" you who's just a bit too soft – and you're comparing yourself to what you could be, once was, or should be.
Stop it. Stop it right this very second.
You are more than a paper doll to be dressed up, scrutinized, and criticized.
I wish all those young girls on that app knew this. I almost thought of leaving comments such as these after some of the posts.
I nearly did comment after a post that made me pause. There was a picture of a young girl with a lovely, round face. She wasn't smiling. Actually, it almost appeared as if she was trying to make herself look as miserable as possible. Beneath her picture, she wrote, "I hate my round face. What can I do to make it thinner?"
I had an answer for her. "Age, my beautiful girl. The aging process will siphon all that collagen from your face, so that one day it's no longer round and all angles, and you'll realize your the face of your youth was perfectly fine just as your aging face is lovely as well, and its 'roundness' was had everything to do with being young and full of life, and your wrinkles now have everything to do with living a full life."
See, once upon a time I was a chubby girl who got teased and called names like "Miss Piggy." Then one day some crazy hormones started finally coursing through through her body and – viola! – she slimmed down. She felt like the ugly duckling turned swan. The very boys who teased her started flirting with her; girls asked her what her "secret" was (once again, it was simply aging and hitting puberty later than others). So the swan preened her feathers and flaunted them, believing all she had to offer the world was skin. She embraced a warped view that to be thinner was to be better and even more loved. She started to exercise rain or shine, sick or well. She started to eat shards of lettuce (hold the dressing, please) for her "big" meal of the day. She grew thinner and yet, she felt that her face stubbornly remained round.
If there had been social media in her day, she would have most certainly become obsessed. She would have seen the girls with hip bones jutting out and hollowed-out faces and wonder why she wasn't as "strong" as them.
This girl was me. I hated my face. I hated how "fat" it looked.
Now I look back on those photos and I see nothing but youth. I used to sift through photos of my "chubby" self (my "before") and compare them to my "after." I was mostly pleased with the way my clavicle was a noticeable ridge and one of the first things you noticed when you looked at my photo, but that face of mine never seemed to change. I put so much effort into trying to change the outside of me while the inside atrophied and was consumed by thoughts of what to eat and what not to eat, how to smile in a photo or tilt my head so that plump face of mine wouldn't look so full, how to get rid of those nasty calories I'd taken in, how to be thinner, and in my twisted mind "better."
If I could turn myself inside out, what would my internal before and after look like? There would be a girl – a silly girl who loved writing in her journal, reading, drama, and horses – who was shutting out all the beauty that longed to radiate from within by becoming preoccupied with weight and changing a face that would one day change all on its own.
More recently, I was with a friend whom I hadn't seen in quite awhile, and we started talking about what we were up to. I admitted that I was in a bit of a slump, but that I was learning something very valuable through it all. I noticed her new Garmin watch and complimented it. "I love it," she said. "I use it all of the time."
"I used to use mine all of the time, too," I said just a tad wistfully. Just call me Eeyore.
"But you don't anymore!" Madeline, the ever-eavesdropper, added.
Nope, I don't, and for some reason I started to consider all of the time I've invested in trying to rehab my tendons and my lopsided pelvis, and I thought of my lackluster soul, how it's been mired in what feels like an interminable dark night for too long, and in need of some serious rehab as well. I thought about how going to weekly Mass really isn't enough to nurture a living faith or to resuscitate a flagging soul. I need to enfold myself into a stronger chrysalis to change: prayer, more confession, more hope.
"You know," I told my friend. "What I'm going to focus on right now is just trying to be a better person. I've spent so much of my life achieving and trying to meet goals, but what if I just poured most of my efforts into being a better person? I know it sounds cliche…." I trailed off.
"No, it doesn't," she said. "Not at all. It sounds like something we all should do."
And so I'm working on pursuing a different kind of before and after. Here's my before: Here's a woman who God just won't give up on despite her doubts, her fears, her struggles that are suddenly resurrecting after years of peace and wholeness. Her soul is beautiful, but it's in need of a makeover. It's not as radiant and trusting and hopeful as it should be – or as it once was. But that's okay. There's no reason to despair or to give up or to compare herself to others who diffuse peace and kindness and unwavering faith.
Because after weeks, months, a lifetime of ups and downs and effort, and grace-seeking and mercy-begging, here's her after: This soul of hers is resplendent. It can't stop shining. It is a grateful soul. It has a few blemishes, yes, because this is a soul of a human, but look at the way it sings and shines and gives and joyfully receives and loves.
That's the "after" I'm going for. Hold me to it.
*I met with a new specialist yesterday and am very hopeful about overcoming this injury and getting back to running, but I am determined to find peace no matter what happens.
It was most definitely an article I needed to read at that moment.
The author writes,
"I refuse to miss my children's high-pitched, pool-induced giggles because of my insecurities.
I refuse to let other women's judging eyes at the pool prevent me from exposing my kids' eyes to the wonder of the sun glittering on the water.
I refuse to let my self-image influence my children's.
I refuse to sacrifice memories with my children because of a soft tummy.
Because at the end of the day, it is not just about me.
It is about my kids.
I want them to remember twirling in the water with their mom.
I want them to remember splash fights together.
I want them to remember jumping off the edge of the pool into my arms.
I want them to remember that their mom was there, with them."
Her third refusal really jumped out at me: I refuse to let my self-image influence my children's.
I thought about my own self-image right about now. Last year around this time, when I ironically was still logging in a lot of running miles (I tend to blame the dearth of running in my life because of my injury as the reason I'm feeling a little less comfortable in my own skin), I wrote a post about my struggle with the scale and how I felt like a fraud admitting I was suffering from "scale sickness" since I am supposed to be a healthy body image expert. I wrote a book making peace with your body, after all. I speak to women and encourage them to redefine beauty and to accept their God-given designs. Shouldn't I do more than talk the talk, so to speak? Where was my walking?
Some days it's there. A lot of times I am a super model for my kids and my fellow women. Not the Cindy Crawford variety (I am getting old; I don't even know who the cool super models are anymore), but of the super ROLE model variety. I sometimes live a life that reminds women that in our efforts to be beautiful, we women must not limit that pursuit to sexual appeal. Our virtue is what begets real beauty.
But there are days when I'm not very kind, or I'm just plain selfish and that makes me ugly. Or there are days when I feel ugly and that makes me not want to be very kind. There are days when I feel lacking as a good human soul – and as a body.
Then there are the moments when I think that maybe I did a thing or two right. I look back on my day. I did something nice for a friend. I cuddled with my kids, read them books, put my husband's socks away with nary a complaint. And, yet, my insecurities – they are so deep-rooted – still get the best of me.
Let's tackle the pool first. I have been swimming with my kids this summer. I've jumped in, made a splash, and not worried that I don't have perfect abs. But that's because I've made sure to go to a pool that none of my friends go to, and we've visited at odd times. Or we've headed to my parents' lake house where there's nothing but family, love, and acceptance. I've avoided being seen by anyone other than those who will love and accept me no matter what. What will I do in July when we are on vacation, and there will possibly be those judging eyes the "Moms, wear your swimsuits" author mentions? Will I gladly accept the swimsuit and bear my skin all for the sake of my family? Yes. I will. But I would be lying if I told you it was going to be easy.
Recently, I've been whining to my husband that I'd like a pool in our backyard like I had growing up, which isn't really a possibility with our given yard and home. Besides. I love my home and don't really want to move. But, oh, how I want my own pool! I sound like a spoiled ninny. I use the excuses of a backyard pool simply being more accessible, a great way to fight the afternoon doldrums, a place for me to exercise and rehabilitate my broken-down body, and the fact that we ought to want to create a super-cool teen pad so that when our kids are older, they will want to hang out at our house with our friends.
These are all fine and valid points perhaps, but there's another reason I am pining for a private pool that I haven't dared to say aloud. I don't like public pools. Again, not because I am a snoot. Not because I worry about my kids' decibel-piercing "outside" voices disturbing the peace, although this is true sometimes. Not even because it can be overwhelming to keep a vigilant eye on four swimming children, but this is a reasonable source of reluctance for me spending every afternoon at a crowded, public pool. It's exhausting, really. I can't possibly socialize with friends I might see at the pool and make sure my kids, especially the two littles, aren't on the verge of drowning.
But perhaps, sadly, the biggest reason and the unspoken one is that I want my own pool so others won't have to see me in a swimsuit. Or really, I won't have to be seen by others. I've wanted to avoid public pools this year because of the way I look – or the way I once looked and the fact that I don't think I look that way any longer (my dear husband still says my body image can be a bit distorted and that I haven't completely shattered that funny carnival mirror in my head that twists and distorts the way I seem myself as well as my body). Or maybe it's just the way I think every other woman but me (we never see others' faults as glaringly as our own, now do we?) looks in their swimsuit. I am afraid of those (probably non-existent) judging eyes. I don't want an audience. I feel okay with just my family, but I don't want any other onlookers to see my physical flaws or to see that I don't possess the kind of self-confidence someone who fights for women's freedom from the scale and the societal constraints of beauty ought to have.
I do also happen to have some really fit friends. I try not to compare myself to them, but it's difficult when their bronzed skin is sparkling in the sunlight and their muscle definition pops out at me like an Andy Warhol painting.
I feel inferior, weaker.
My kids don't know about my feelings. Yet. I haven't complained about my swimsuit. I have taken them to the pool – just an unpopular one where we never see anyone else swimming. I jump in and swim and feel happy and weightless. I forget that I am sometimes still at war with my flesh.
But when I read the article yesterday, I realized me putting on a swimsuit and being confident in it – whether we are hanging out in our backyard patio kiddie "pool"side or at a public pool – isn't about me any longer. Like the author points out, it's about my children. It's about showing them there's more to life than looking "hot" or just "good" in a swimsuit. It's not how you look; it's what you do with your life. We can't let our bodies or our feelings about them define our lives.
As I came to realize my own reluctance to slip into a swimsuit with ease, I started to consider the other messages I might be conveying to my children – all under the guise of pursuing health and fitness. I recently joked about how my 9-year-old admonished me for doing push-ups less than 24 hours after I'd had an impacted wisdom tooth extracted. At the time, I felt like I was sending her a positive message. Look at your tough mom who can show her strength even in the wake of surgery, albeit a very, very minor one. But this morning, I realized I was performing a precarious tightrope walk there between coming off as strong and healthy and just plain stupid and obsessive.
I am constantly teaching my children about healthy food choices. I don't define any food as bad or vilify any one food group. Food is fuel. Some of it's better than others. Food is also a conduit of community and even love. We break bread together. We don't need to serve it with a heaping side of guilt.
Similarly, I don't make exercise (for them) about feeling good in a swimsuit. We're active because it's fun! They feel great in their swimsuits because it means they get to cool off and swim! Nothing more, nothing less. With the exception of one persnickety child who doesn't cope well with the occasional swimsuit wedgie, they have no cares when they show more skin. And, yet, I am still not always conveying the "right" message to my beautiful daughters.
There's a fine line between the pursuit of health and an obsession with it. A relatively new eating disorder known as orthorexia has even been introduced. The National Eating Disorders Association explains orthorexia and those who suffer from it like this:
Those who have an "unhealthy obsession" with otherwise healthy eating may be suffering from "orthorexia nervosa," a term which literally means "fixation on righteous eating." Orthorexia starts out as an innocent attempt to eat more healthfully, but orthorexics become fixated on food quality and purity. They become consumed with what and how much to eat, and how to deal with "slip-ups." An iron-clad will is needed to maintain this rigid eating style. Every day is a chance to eat right, be "good," rise above others in dietary prowess, and self-punish if temptation wins (usually through stricter eating, fasts and exercise). Self-esteem becomes wrapped up in the purity of orthorexics' diet and they sometimes feel superior to others, especially in regard to food intake.
I'd add that a "sister" disorder would be those who become "addicted" to rigid exercise routines. The obsessive organic and the compulsive CrossFitter both have problems even if they appear to simply be making healthy choices. We need to ask ourselves: How attached are we to these healthy choices? Does our need to eat a strict Paleo diet or run a certain number of miles a week steal intimacy from our lives? The more attached we are to being healthy, the more we might withdraw from others. We might avoid a social event out of fear that unhealthy food might be served or because it interferes with our workout schedule. We might miss a child's baseball game because we have to work out. We think we are gaining with these righteous, "healthy" choices, but we're really losing.
I have often argued only treating women with clinically diagnosed eating disorders is rubbish. Just because a woman doesn't have a dangerous BMI or drop a below a certain percentage of her weight doesn't mean she's not sick. There are women walking around at a healthy, average weights who are slaves to the scale and food or who purge several times a week after eating "bad" food. There are overweight women who are obsessively at war with their bodies and eat as a way to soothe their frayed edges and to fill the part of them that they feel is unlovable. And there are women with athletic, lean bodies who look like the picture of health but who wouldn't think of skipping a workout even if they had a fever or a family member needed them or it was Christmas morning. All of these women have disordered habits, and I'm afraid performing push-ups because I feel fidgety and then thinking it's funny or just a sign of my tenacity might be a wee bit disordered as well. Sometimes being healthy just isn't.
Pray about the messages you might be sending to your children with your "healthy" or otherwise choices you make every day and your subtle and not-so-subtle actions.
Our daughters – and sons! – are watching. They see us when we duck out of a photo-op. "I'll take the picture," we say obligingly. "I don't need to be in it."
They read between the lines. "Mom doesn't want to be in the photograph."
Later, they will wonder why. Is it because she didn't feel beautiful, good enough? Am I good enough?
"You go ahead and swim. Have fun! I'll be watching!" we shout to our children at the beach or the pool as we stay wrapped up in a cocoon of flesh-hiding towels.
Mom's always just watching instead of living. She's watching the scale. She's watching how her jeans fit and allowing it determine her mood for the day.
Or Mom is chronically on a diet or refuses to eat anything with gluten in it even though she's never been diagnosed as being gluten intolerant. It just seems like the healthy thing to do and at some level, Mom feels superior because she can go without a food that others enjoy eating.
"I want to be strong!" Mom says as she squeezes in a few crunches or tricep dips at an odd time.
Kids already think their mom is strong; she doesn't need to ban a food from her diet or obsessively flex her muscles when a doctor has told her to take a few days off. That's not a healthy role model. That's someone with an unhealthy compulsion.
Disordered eating, compulsive exercising – these are addictions. We turn to our addiction – whether it's with food (binging on it or restricting it) or exercise or the scale – because we think it will give us something we need: Control, self-worth, value, a purpose, strength. All the while it's robbing us. It keeps us from the pool. It keeps us from making happy memories. It keeps us from enjoying food and enjoying the movement of our bodies. It keeps us from loving our families fully. Addictions cause us to accept fear and anxiety as an inextricable part of everyday life. We should not have anxiety about wearing a swimsuit in front of others. Nor should we fear going to a friend's house for dinner because she might not serve "clean" food.
A preoccupation with food, our weight, our health, and yes, ourselves keeps us from living.
Addictions always, always take far more than they give.
I see so many moms embracing Paleo diets or going gluten-free or running 5Ks, and I am proud of them for taking charge of their health. But be careful, Mothers. It's not easy to hide your insecurities or distorted body image in a swimsuit, but it can be frighteningly easy to hide in the subterfuge of an ironclad dedication to a healthy lifestyle.
Consider those little eyes watching your every move. They are learning from you – for better or worse.
Once my most sensitive child was eyeing her reflection in the mirror as I braided her honeyed hair. "I'm not as pretty as [one of her sisters]," she said.
I looked at her sparkling, doe-like eyes. You could get lost in their dark, imploring beauty, and I wanted to gently shake her like a snow globe and watch all the white specks as they settle into their peaceful, beautiful form. Why would she think this? Why would she compare herself to someone else and feel like she had come up lacking?
Ah, yes. Maybe because her own mother fears the public pool because in her distorted mind it can become a contest of the fairest of the fair. Or maybe because her own mother is so afraid of losing a few days of fitness she ignores her doctor and her husband's orders.
My daughter is beautiful in every way. So are her sisters. So am I.
I believe my children are nothing but loveliness and beauty personified. I can easily see glimpses of God in them, in their sense of wonderment, their peals of laughter, and the raw joy they exhibit at the most simple sights – a ladybug discovered on their bedroom windowsill, morning clouds gilded with the gold of the rising sun.
Indeed, it's easy to see the beauty in my children. In me not so much. But it's time to start working at it again.
So many of us are hungry for something more in our lives. We fill this void with food, or rigid, healthy habits, or we relentlessly pursue beauty or youth in an effort to feel better about ourselves. Many women know eating disorders – anorexia, bulimia – are bad. But exercise and eating clean? Well, these are just good for my health, we rationalize. And they can be. To a point. We must protect what is precious, that is the house – our bodies – that carry our souls. We must consecrate the desires of the flesh to sanctify the spirit within, and that means making healthy choices and sometimes saying no to the Doritos and Ben & Jerry's.
But we're no longer being healthy when we lose balance; when we feel overwhelming guilt because we ate one cookie or missed a workout. A desire for self-improvement can easily become self-annihilation if we can't ever let go of our healthy habits, or we're always focused on the person who's more cellulite-free, prettier, or thinner than us. And she might just be sunbathing at the pool, so it's best to stay hidden at home and keep doing those push-ups.
Then it becomes a compulsion, an addiction. We become a slave to it. And so do our children.
Meanwhile, life is passing all of us by.
Moms, put on your swimsuit. And swim. Moms, step in front of the camera. And smile. Those photos will one day be treasured memories and you might think you look puffy or old now, but a few years from now you'll recognize the beauty that is you. Your children already see it. Take care of your body, yes, but not at the expense of your health or your family or as punishment for feeling inadequate or for mindlessly munching on potato chips. Don't let being healthy become unhealthy.
Step away from the mirror and instead become a mirror for your children; a mirror filled with light, a mirror that reflects love, joy, and optimism. I promise that even if you don't always, your children, your friends, even the stranger at the grocery store or the fellow mom you meet poolside will love what they see. You.]]>
1. I had a wisdom tooth extracted yesterday. I felt a bit groggy from the twilight anesthesia (first experience with that and only my second IV; I had to get one when I went into preterm labor at 29 weeks with baby numero 4), but that's about it. I'm kind of wishing I'd just opted for laughing gas, the cheaper option, since we don't have dental insurance and our health insurance doesn't cover any oral surgery, but the oral surgeon advised against it. However, the worst pain I've had has been in my hand from where the IV went in; my mouth feels super-duper. Prior to the procedure, I was honestly looking forward to a vacay and just being out of it and confined to the bed with a good book, but I feel pretty much normal. My 9-year-old caught me doing push-ups this morning and said, "Daddy said you weren't supposed to exercise yet."
"I know, I know," I said. "I am feeling fidgety."
This comes from the same person whose Dad caught her doing the Health Rider when she had a pretty severe case of mono her senior year of high school (liver was affected, I became jaundiced, spleen was enlarged, etc.).
"You're grounded!" he shouted.
"I already feel like I am grounded!" I snapped back. It's true I'd been confined to my room for about a month, doctor's orders. (My parents never actually grounded me during my lifetime under their roof.)
My dad dragged the Health Rider to the basement. The next day he told me he'd had a dream (nightmare?) that he found my bed empty and ran over to the park across the street from our house to discover a glowing Katie (I really was quite yellow from the jaundice) running in the park. I realized then that he really was worried, and I needed to rest for his sake if not for mine.
Flash forward almost a decade, and my oldest child tsks, tsks me for ding push-ups. I've always been a stubborn one, and I wonder why my offspring can be so darn tenacious.
2. Last night I did treat myself to what I thought was simply a chick flick but ended up being much more. Do watch About Time if you haven't already. Don't let the whole "time traveling" thing stop you. This movie has heart and delivers an important message about how we really ought to live every day like we've already lived it because then maybe we'd do a better job at giving our best, noticing the person in front of us (the grocery clerk, the Starbucks barista, the child tugging at our clothes, the spouse lying beside us in bed), taking ourselves and life less seriously, and just being kind. I was weeping at the end of the film, but they were happy, grateful tears. I also happen to love Rachel McAdams, who stars in the movie, although actor Bill Nighy steals the show. You know when you like an actress and you just feel like she seems like a nice, down-to-earth person? Well, that's how I've always felt about Rachel McAdams, and it turns out she is actually a quite likable person in real life. My uncle (one of my dad's brothers) is an actor – John Pankow – and he was in Morning Glory with her and told me she was super friendly, lovely, and not pretentious at all. I'm glad I'm such a good judge of Hollywood actors' characters.
3. I've been trying to eat a relatively clean diet lately, although I still do imbibe occasionally, love my morning cup of joe, and like me some chocolate every once in awhile. I recently tried this delicious Four Ingredient Protein Pudding recipe, and I highly recommend it. Yum!
4. Last night I realized that maybe two of my little girls (ages 7 and 5) had been a little scared about Mama's "surgery" (I hesitate to even refer to it as that since it was so minor, and I feel so great). They were asking where they would go if something happened to me. I told them Daddy would take care of them, but that the chances of that happening were very small. They then asked what would happen if something happened to Daddy and me. I told them they would go live with Uncle Josh (my brother) and Aunt Megan but that, again, this probably would never ever happen.
"With Ellyn [their new baby cousin]?" 7-year-old Rachel asked.
"Yes, with Ellyn," I said.
Five-year-old Mary Elizabeth then gasped happily and said, "Really?"
So much for missing Mom and Dad.
Rachel then started asking big questions about how I'd feel without the kids. "You'd probably have the time of your lives," said my melancholic.
"No way," I said. "My life would be awful without you."
"But," she argued, "it would be a lot more peaceful." So maybe there has been some more sibling head-bopping lately, but I'll take the chaos and craziness over having a quiet house and an empty heart.
5. Well, I had more to ramble about, but kids are hungry (actually, they're more "hangry" than hungry. Some more head-bopping is going down.).]]>
I made the last one up.
Honestly, I've been trying to refrain from writing about my stupid hamstring and jalopy of a body for myriad reasons. First, I figured no one really cared to endure my whining and that anyone who isn't a runner wouldn't understand why on earth someone would be depressed about not being able to wake up at 5 am and run for miles and train for races that might lead to toenails falling off. Second, once upon a time this blog was simply about mothering, my faith (or lack thereof), and body image, so its target audience isn't necessarily all that interested in a chronic running injury. Finally, I have a remarkable talent for ruminating endlessly about my hamstring and how frustrated I am, and it's easy to get sucked into a black hole of negativity.
But here's a the-glass-is-half-full kind of thought for you: Due to not running much at all this spring, my feet are looking prettier than ever, and I actually wasn't embarrassed to get a pedicure a few weeks ago.
Pollyanna, eat your heart out!
On the other hand, now that I know that quite a few people are actually seeking me out to find out about my hammy, I'm all for prattling on about it and for pondering the bigger lessons that can be gleaned from a persistent injury.
High hamstring tendinopathy is a very stubborn injury, and there's not a lot of research-backed treatment protocols. A lot of medical professionals aren't really sure how to approach healing, or they have different theories as to why it happened and what will make it better. So a lot of sad, injured, and desperate runners seek out Dr. Google. I know I have done this more times than I'd like to admit.
{"Mommy, are you reading about your hamstring again?"
"Um, maybe."
"You're obsessed."
No comment.}
In the online world of blogs, medical websites, running forums, etc. you'll uncover some success stories but far more lamentations about how a runner has been trying to overcome this injury for years. Lest you think I am a pathetic freak of nature, complete hypochondriac, or just an obsessed weirdo as my 9-year-old seems to think, I stumbled across one blog that is about one topic and one topic only: an injured runner's high hamstring tendinopathy. Yes, the blog is actually entitled "High Hamstring Tendinopathy: A Real B#$*@ [rhymes with witch], My Struggle to Recover and Maintain Sanity" (good news: She did eventually overcome the injury!).
If you're anything like this blogger or me, in your desperation, you may even find yourself emailing and over-sharing to some stranger Dr. Google led you to who is running again and seems to have overcome high hamstring tendinopathy (yes, I did that, too), and the person kindly responds and offers her insight, but sadly you've tried most of the things she suggests.
Let's see what exactly have I tried to get better? Here's just a smattering (I've done a few other things as well):
I know. This is a little ridiculous. It's not as if I'm pining for an Olympic medal. I just want to run again – and walk again! – without pain! It would be nice to be able to sit without a bum ache, too.
Now here's what I haven' tried yet: Cortisone injections to the site, platelet-rich plasma (PRP) or prolotherapy injections, and obviously surgery. I am very interested in hearing from anyone who has suffered from a partial tear of the high hamstring and/or high hamstring tendiopathy and what has or hasn't worked to facilitate healing. Every person and every body is different, but I am very proactive (or obsessed as my 9-year-old says!) about researching my options and exploring further treatment. This coming week is a big one for me. I am getting a wisdom tooth cut out that decided to pop out when I'm nearing 40 instead of when I was a teenager. I'd call myself a late bloomer except the oral surgeon commented on the fact that I had "significant" arthritis in my jaw for someone my age. He asked me if my jaw hurt. "Only my hamstring and iliac crest," I replied.
Okay, so maybe I am a little obsessed.
After the wisdom tooth exits the premises, I have an appointment in the big city with a sports medicine doctor who specializes in overuse injuries and ultrasound-guided PRP injections. I am hopeful!
The bottom line (pun intended since it is my bottom that aches all of the time): I still hurt, especially when I sit for too long, which is yet another reason this blog (and my novel) have been sorely neglected. If I sit for more than 10 minutes, I start to ache and have to lift my left butt cheek to the side, and it starts to look like I am a fan of flagrantly emitting flatulence.
There have been several points when I've felt like I could run again and have attempted to slowly ease back into running, only to experience a return of pain. What's worse, is one day I was out for a slow walk/run when, lo and behold, my left hamstring wasn't hurting, but the area above my left iliac crest started to ache and then became so painful I could barely walk home. I went to a doctor for the pain, and x-rays showed no fracture, but they did reveal that the right side of my pelvis was significantly higher – something others have told me and I also suspected since my shorts always ride up on the right side, and I've felt a little lopsided for as long as I can remember. So I was referred to spine specialist who asked me if I'd ever been in an accident or taken a fall from a high place. That would be an affirmative. Before the risk part of my brain was developed, I found it exhilarating to hop on wild horses and see if and how long I could stay on. I took multiple falls when I was younger, and this physical therapist believes that these shifted my tail bone and pelvis so that it's now pulling on the hamstring and other muscles and tendons of my left leg. Basically, he said I've been like a car logging miles with my wheels out of alignment. It doesn't matter how strong I am or how few miles I run or how slowly I cover them, I am going to get injured. This makes a lot of sense to me, and I am hopeful that we are finally arriving at the root of the problem and that the new doctor I see next week will agree and will be able to offer further insight as to how to get me better and out running again.
And, truthfully, it's not the running that has hobbled me! It's not even the fact that I might have over-trained a bit, not properly fueled my body given the miles I was running last summer and fall, or am a weakling. It's just that my muscles aren't working properly because my pelvis is all out of whack. Running doesn't injure people, but running the wrong way – whether it's because of a crooked pelvis, over-training, or covering miles in the wrong shoes – most certainly does.
One sports medicine doctor suggested I might make a good triatholon athlete, so my dear husband bought me an amazing bike that I can't ride now because my hip hurts. I've had a lot of medical professionals tell me I just need to take it easy and be patient. Well, I'm approaching the 9-month mark since my injury and have only ran a handful of miles at a ridiculously slow pace when I once was running 30 to 40 miles every week. Walking and sitting causes pain, so this is no longer about running, and resting is not the antidote to it either.
Thankfully, a doctor also gave me a vote of confidence and said, "We're not ready to retire you to the pasture yet."
Wow, you really know how to build a girl up.
I shouldn't be snarky. I am so thankful for all those who have tried to figure out why I hurt and how I can get better, and I am also extremely grateful that I have the resources to obtain medical care. I know this a pitifully small cross to shoulder compared to what so many others have to deal with, but it hasn't been easy and based on all those search engine entries involving my hammy it appears that there are others frustrated with high hamstring tendinopathy and hoping that maybe I've discovered a magical cure and am back running.
I haven't (yet!), but I have learned a great deal through this experience. First off, I'm not in control. I can religiously perform my rehab exercises. I can keep seeking out medical professionals who will help me to get to the bottom of things. I can cry, rant, and pray for my pitiful hamstring. But I can't make it all better. Nor can I get angry at professionals who can't make it better. I can, however, will myself to be grateful for all the good in my life as well as to cling to the hope that I'll overcome this. I asked my husband the other day if he thought I'd ever be able to run and let alone walk without pain. "I do," he said.
"What about Boston? Do you think I'll run Boston someday?"
"I do," he said. "I really do."
God love him.
I've also learned that body image issues aren't just about how your body looks. Sometimes you start to hate your body because of how it performs and because it can't do what you want it to do. I remember when I wrote the aging chapter for Weightless, I felt very unqualified to ponder things like wrinkles. I couldn't imagine being upset about aging. I'd only be thankful that I was still around and among the living with my friends and family. I wrote the book about five years ago, and in five short years I have abruptly become aware of my mortality. My body is not working like it used to. My pelvis has been crooked for a long time, but it used to not bother me. I have noticed the lines forming on my expressive face. I pulled out my first gray hair right around my birthday this year. I am inching very close to my fourth decade.
I told my husband I desperately wanted to be pregnant again because at least I'm good at growing babies and delivering them into the world. My midwife once remarked, "My dear, you were made to have babies." As if that's something I can really take credit for, though. That's just a blessing I have. My body happens to labor very well (pregnancy not so much). As if it's my fault that my high hamstring won't heal. Clearly, these thoughts are further evidence of my control and pride issues.
Currently, I am working to make peace with my body – not because I'm unhappy with what I see in the reflection in the mirror so much, although not being able to exercise for mind, body, and spirit as much as I'd like hasn't been easy – but because I've had to accept my body and to love it for its natural design, its limitations, and to not be so focused on my current age – or the fact that it can't perform like I think it should – but on the age to come.
When I've become really down and frustrated with my inability to heal and my new aches and pains or increasingly creased face, I tell myself to shift the focus off myself. That's something I wrote about in the Weightless aging chapter and got right.
Hey, Katie, take care of that amazing husband of yours who could care less how fast you are or how wrinkly you become (you're growing older together!). Cuddle with those children who think you have the strongest arms in the world. Think of how that sweet 2-year-old boy says almost daily, "Mommy, you're pretty," because to him you're the most beautiful woman alive right now. Be grateful for all of your friends who love you for you, not because of any of your accomplishments or how fit you are. Think of your running pal who walks beside you now and would do anything for you and will be your true friend whether you ever run another mile again in your life. Imagine your mom with ice packs on her burning face, whose eyes feel like they might pop out of her face sometimes, who has a debilitating disease that is frequently referred to as the suicide disease because its intense and painful symptoms can usually only be managed and right now can't be managed very well for your sweet mama but will never be cured. She is a suffering servant. She has been for several years now. She chooses to see the blessings in her life instead of wallowing in pity and cursing her body and her fate. She knows that she is more than her pain.
You're more than your hamstring. You're more than a runner.
These are some of the lessons you've had to learn and perhaps because of them someday someone will end up on this little corner of cyberspace because they searched for "Kate Wicker + thy will be done."]]>
Dear Rachel,
Happy 7th birthday! As Madeline is fond of writing in kids' birthday cards these days, seven is such a big number. Indeed it is. Where did our Baby Rae run off to?
My sweet Rachel, you are growing into such a lovely, little lady. You just ran into my bedroom with a tower of books stacked in your arms and are repositioning pillows on my bed as I type your birthday letter (a few days late, mind you, such is life these days).
"Whew! That was hard work," you say, heaving the books onto the bed.
You're preparing to engage in a few of your very favorite activities: Reading, savoring silence, and cuddling beside me. I love our quiet time together. It's a rare gift these days since we're always so busy and because I often find my only quiet time to involve me attempting to cajole Thomas to be still for at least 30 minutes. But when we are able carve out a corner of calm together, it is always special.
You're very good at slowing down, being still, and finding contentment in just being rather than doing. I love that (as well as many other things!) about you!
I love your sensitive soul – how your eyes fill with tears when you think someone else has been wounded – even if that someone else is a cartoon character. There's a scene in Despicable Me 2 in which Gru has a flashback where a girl he planned to give a flower to spurns him, and upon watching it you had to blink away the tears.
"It makes me sad, too," I told you.
But you became embarrassed and refused to admit the scene had stirred so much empathy in you. You do that quite often. I'll notice that you're on the brink of crying, reach out to comfort you, and you'll brush me aside. "My eyes are just watering," you'll insist. Yes, sometimes you want to keep your big feelings to yourself, and I need to learn to respect that and give you your space.
However, other times you're an effusion of emotion. When you're happy, you're gleeful, although just because you aren't always all grins doesn't mean you're not happy. Recently, you remarked, "People think I'm not happy because I don't smile all of the time, but that's not true."
Your Daddy nodded. "I'm the same way."
But there's no mistaking it when you think something is funny. When you laugh, you burst into infectious giggles and we can't help but join in. You also happen to have a great sense of humor and regularly make me laugh with your jokes and witty and spot-on observations about life.
When you're angry, you share your mama's passion, and people better watch out and just leave you alone. You're so full of fervency and feeling. You're going to experience life in Technicolor because of that.
Of course, I fear you'll also experience heartaches more deeply than others (um, like someone else I know), but I'll understand because I am the same way. Don't you worry. But let's not think about all that right now. Currently and quite fortunately, the worst pain you generally experience is hurt feelings (you are sensitive, so you do sometimes sweat the small stuff as they say) and an ache or two when Thomas unleashes his inner Todzilla, or you and one of your sisters engage in a girl fight. (Your extroverted siblings need to learn to respect your reserved nature, and you, my dear, need to learn to cut them some slack when they don't.)
Now let's talk about your current interests. Turquoise or aqua (you go back and forth) are your favorite colors. You've been asking to take gymnastics, so we finally agreed and I am so proud of how hard you work at class. Even though it's a beginner's class, all the other girls can do cartwheels, etc. and have clearly been at it for longer than you, but that doesn't keep you from going out there and giving your best. You and I are a lot of like in many ways, but I know I sadly would have wanted to quit if I saw that others could do more than I could. That's probably why I never learned to do a cartwheel. But not you. You're having fun and seem to have embraced the challenge. You don't compare yourself to others in the class. You're only focused on your own skill development. That makes me so very proud.
You are a real bookworm and won the "Top Reader" award for the first grade this past spring. You're still reading beside me, in fact. When you go MIA, I can usually find you curled up in a bed somewhere with a book. You're an early bird and seem to have trouble sleeping in even when you're up past your bedtime (I can relate!).
You love animals and frequently give Layla [our dog] belly rubs. You want to be a vet when you grow up. You have an ear for music and have taught yourself a few songs on the piano. We hope to get you enrolled in piano lessons soon. Your face is dusted with freckles, and I always tell you a face without freckles is like a sky without stars, and you smile ever so shyly.
You like to draw, but you're always anxious that your work isn't good enough. Think of gymnastics and how you just focus on what you're working on and do your best. Keep drawing. Art is very subjective any way, and I love your doodles of cats and flowers.
You're in the process of constructing an elaborate fairy house beneath our Japanese Maple. The dwelling already boasts a swing, a slide, a bed laden with flower petals, and a long table adorned with a bowl (half a pecan shell from our pecan tree) filled with peas (tiny green seeds you foraged from the yard).
You love horses and you just told me that you wished Daddy wasn't a doctor [who sees injuries from horseback riding frequently] so he would let you ride more often. You do have a horse camp coming up in July, and you can't wait.
You're a carnivore and love to eat Daddy's ribs. You also love shrimp. You're not as in to traditional cake, so we made a big batch of blondies for your family birthday and then snowmen Oreo and pudding cakes for your birthday party with friends (you tasted the cake and said it was the best ever, but aesthetically Daddy and I felt like it would make a good Pinterest fail. Whatever. Cake is for eating.)
You're very in to Frozen (along with every other little girl) right now, and one of my favorite things to watch is to see you sing (and act out!) "In Summer." You make an adorable Olaf. You wanted a Frozen birthday party with your friends. We typically do small scale, family parties around here but when I tried to encourage you to do this, your eyes filled with tears. "I want a friend party," you said.
I agreed but said we would demand that no presents be bought (after a big purge this spring, the last thing we needed is 15 or so more toys to infiltrate our home). "That's fine!" you quickly agreed. "I just want to see my friends."
It was so lovely to watch how your friends adore you and how you're so sweet to them all. You're quiet, but not too quiet, and your face was beaming the entire party. Friends were constantly showering you with hugs and calling your name. "Rachel! Rachel!"
One friend didn't know any of the other girls, and you went out of your way to make sure she was included. At one point, I rushed back into the kitchen because one of our guests needed something else, and you came in and said, "Mommy, I know this is a lot of work for you."
Oh, Rachel, what 7-year-old has the presence of mind to notice that her mom is working hard during her own birthday party? You're the same child who writes me the most beautiful "just because" notes and really seems to appreciate when I do the same for you. I think I've found my "words of affirmation" bosom buddy.
Like me, you also seem to need more affirmation – in whatever form – than the average person, and anything remotely negative seems to weigh on you.
Well, let me tell you this, and then it's your job to believe it: I love you just the way you are! You are a kind, funny, sweet, beautiful, clever, determined, sensitive, lovely, young lady, and I love being with you and watching you grow. Don't let anyone – especially your own self – convince you of anything otherwise. Like your first grade teacher told me this year, God has great plans for you.
Happy, happy birthday, my beautiful Rae-Rae! I am so honored to be your mom!
Mommy (you recently decided you were going to start calling me Mom, but you have forgotten and keep calling out, "Mommy." I'm glad. ;-))
My baby brother, who is actually only 18 months younger than I am but will always be my baby brother, and his beautiful wife just welcomed their first baby into their lives and the world.
Meet sweet Ellyn Jane and the proud, new daddy.
Ellyn was born on Pentecost Sunday, so she is in good company as far as birthdays go. She's also my goddaughter and first niece. Nine-year-old Madeline used to complain about only having furry cousins since there are some cats and dogs in the extended family, but Ellyn's debut marks the arrival of the very first first cousin. The kids haven't met her yet and weren't too happy with the hospital policy of no kids under 12 (unless they are siblings of the baby) being allowed the visit. I was talking about how cute Ellyn was, and Madeline said, "Don't rub it in."
As I held her, my eyes pricked with tears, and I couldn't help but remember the day I became a mother and held my first tiny treasure in my arms. Dave and I laughed about how excited he became when a geyser of thick meconium bubbled out of Madeline's butt. "She works!" he exclaimed.
She did work, and so did I. The mothering thing wasn't as impossible as I might have thought. Of course, I can say that now. I can also say that yes, I did sleep again, but there was a long stretch of time when I thought sleep was a luxury I'd never again enjoy (my firstborn was a complete insomniac and to this day has the energy of a hummingbird). I can say now that I should have sometimes slept when the baby slept, but I hated it when people told me to sleep when she was taking a short snooze. I didn't want to just be a feeding machine and a catnapper. There was more to life. Wasn't there? Yes. I can say that now, too. I can say a lot of things. That babies bring joy, but they bring a whole mix of other emotions as well.
After my first, I was fortunate to be basking in baby bliss. I remember experiencing a sort of mania and baking banana bread the first day I arrived home from the hospital. I remember this because a wise relative gently advised me that I might want to take it easy and warned that I might hit a wall. I poo-poohed her advice. I felt great! I had a baby! I was a mother! Life was grand! I was one of those weird. new moms, I suppose, who was deluded into thinking those happy, endorphins would last forever (trust me, I was not this way postpartum with all my babies). But, in fact, I didn't end up hitting the wall until my baby was around six months old and still waking to nurse about every 45 minutes. But still. I was so happy. I was a mom! (I repeated that a lot in that first year or two because sometimes it still seemed surreal after two years of waiting and wondering when I would join that elite crowd of mothers). It would take a subsequent child to discover the darkness of postpartum depression and to become mired in sadness and guilt because I wasn't overcome with joy. But with my first – maybe because it took longer to conceive than I'd hoped or thought would be my reality – I was very, very happy.
But beneath the joy, there was something else less rosy. Fear. I was terribly afraid that if I didn't do everything right, I would mess up this beautiful child of mine. This wasn't just a plant I might forget to water (I have a bad track record with green things). This was a human soul, a vessel of hopes and dreams, and she was entrusted to anxious, quirky, and imperfect me. I could do so much damage. I could inflict so much pain. If she didn't bloom, it would absolutely be my fault even if it wasn't. Because it's not a mother's fault if her baby isn't gaining the right amount of weight while breastfeeding or if the child doesn't meet her milestones right on schedule. We moms blame ourselves for a lot of things that aren't really all that much in our control. On the flip side, we sometimes take credit for things that have little to do with us and everything to do with our children's natural bend and God.
If I could write a letter to my new mother self, I'd tell me to lighten up, to cuddle more and to worry less, to not feel guilty for longing for a break from the never-ending cycle of feeding, sleeping, and changing diapers. I'd praise myself for giving my best, and I remind myself that forgiveness is a beautiful gift and you start receiving its fruits by forgiving yourself for when you fall short as a mother or a friend or a wife. I'd remind myself that a lot of things – dare I say most things? - aren't really the parents' fault, especially if the child is born to parents who worry that everything will be their fault. If you're anxious or worried or afraid or full of remorse after you yelled at your child or walked away from your screaming baby just because you needed to collect yourself and breathe normally for five seconds, then you're probably a good enough parent. Oh, I'd have a lot to say, actually, so I'll say some of it now for my sister-in-law and for my brother, too, and for any mother who is waiting on the eve of first-time motherhood.
Dear Katie,
Congratulations! Your baby is beautiful. She's also a lot less fragile than you might think. You're not going to break her (although she will break a few of her bones all on her own years from now and it will break your heart, but she will survive and so will you). Have fun with her! Don't take mothering so seriously! She loves it when you act goofy (and even when she gets older and starts rolling her eyes at you, she still like it when you are goofy and pretend to be Roger Coopahoo). Yes, she's a beautiful, little girl, but you might want to stop putting her in those frilly frocks. Seriously. Aside from the fact that those buttons are ridiculously small, and you're tired, and your little model is wiggly and you're just wasting your precious energy dressing her up like a doll, your daughter is going to grow up hating the color pink and wanting to play soccer. She's going to cry at ballet class because it's just not her thing but break into a nonstop grin when she finds her way to a soccer field (she's inching closer to the ten-mark and still hasn't stopped grinning when she's outside with a spread of grass and a ball). She's going to ask for a pirate party in lieu of a princess party. But she will be no less beautiful. She's going to make you laugh and beam when she smiles and jokes around and when others tell you that she's such a nice girl. She will always be a princess to you as will her sisters, and her brother will be just as cherished and special. There's somehow always enough love to go around, although it would be nice if you had a few more arms.
While we're on the subject of beauty, you know what? You're beautiful, too. You may not see it now. Yes, you're redolent of Eau du Breastmilk, and I do believe that's a streak of diaper ointment in your hair, and WARNING: That is NOT a drop of green smoothie sliding down your arm so do not even think of licking it, but you possess a new kind of beauty. It doesn't matter that you haven't lost your baby weight or that everything has shifted. Be patient and kind to yourself, will you? You just grew a human being in your body, brought her into the world, and now you're in charge of meeting all of her basic needs. Cut yourself some slack. Look in the mirror. Do you see the beauty? This is the kind of beauty that has little to do with aesthetics and nothing to do with how well you fit into your skinny jeans. That baby of yours looks to you for her every need and even when it would be easier to run and hide or at least put a pillow over your head and cry in exasperation (it's perfectly okay that you do that from time to time, you know), you are there to meet her needs. When she cries, your total body responds. Even when she bawls for no apparent reason and you walk aimlessly around the house drunk with exhaustion gently jiggling her in your aching arms, you are there for her. Are you not aware of your power to nurture and to love? There you are, looking beyond yourself, your own needs and wants, and the outer shell of chic hair and curves, and you're catching a glimpse of what it means to truly give of yourself. And that, dear Mother, is what makes you perfectly lovely.
Oh, Mama, I know you sometimes mourn your old life (and then feel terribly guilty for doing just that). I know you sometimes feel shut out from the world and powerless, especially when your arms, your milk, nothing can make that sweet baby stop crying, and just wait until baby three comes along and cries every day from 8 pm to 1 am unless you're nursing or holding her and walking endlessly whispering, "Shhh, shhh," when you really want to be screaming, "Will you please shut up?" It's not easy. No. The people who say being a mother is easy have forgotten or they outsourced the tough work or they had children far different than your wonderful but spirited ones. It's in the hard parts that you really become aware of what you're made of. Mom, you are stronger because of that child. Your arms no longer ache quite as much as they used to when you carry her for hours at end, do they? And did you ever think lover-of-sleep-that-you-are that you would be able to survive on this little shut-eye? You may not be running marathons any longer, but you better believe you're an endurance athlete.
But let me tell you this, too. You NEED to understand this and embrace this: It's okay if that baby cries a little. You will not ruin her. You are so afraid – so desperately, absurdly afraid – that if you don't jump and respond to even the briefest bleat, your mother-daughter bond will break, and it will your fault if she ever has any inner demons to confront. What you are really afraid of was that if you don't do everything right, she might end up with a drug addiction like someone you love very much.
Stop being so afraid. You know how you trusted that your body would know what to do during labor and lo and behold, it did? You've got to start trusting now. You've got to relinquish control. There are no guarantees in anything you do as a parent. No parent can save her child from every ill, from every heartbreak, from shedding tears now and then.
There is no saving embrace – except that of God's.
Nothing is going to hurt my baby. Nothing. That's what you're saying now. That's what all parents say. It's instinct. We want to protect these babies of ours.
But in time, you will see that things hurt your babies all of the time. Sometimes it's even – gasp! – you who's doing the hurting, by gently but firmly saying no to their pleas. There are rainy days when it's supposed to be sunny so you can venture out to the zoo. There are dinners not followed by dessert.
One day, your kids will likely face much bigger disappointments – broken hearts, rejections from colleges and employers, backstabbing friends, missed opportunities, and maybe worse.
There's no escaping it: Pain is a part of the human condition. Welcome to life, kiddos. It's full of disappointments.
The world is chipping away at your children's innocent hearts every day. And yet, as tough as it is for a mother who is designed to love her children fiercely and deeply, guess what? It's not your job to inoculate your children against all the angst of life.
Thomas Paine said, "What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly."
And didn't God say something very similar when He sacrificed His only Son for us so that we could have life? One drop of Christ's blood could have saved us all, yet He freely chose to shed every last bit of it. He gave what is beyond sufficient, so that we might recognize the power of sacrificial love. This is also known as tough love, and trust me, it's not easy to dole out, but it is necessary.
Of course, you won't spoil her, either, by carrying her in your arms every waking hour if that's your heart's desire or if your leaky boobs are telling your to nurse her again. Don't listen to all the "experts." You're the expert. God gave that baby to you. If parenting books, articles, blogs, advice from others, etc. make you feel more at peace and better equipped, then seek them out. However, if anything makes you suffer from the slightest twinge of inadequacy, step away and ignore it. While you're at it, don't compare yourself to any other mom, and definitely don't compare your child to another child. Just don't do it. There will be babies who meet milestones more quickly than yours. There will be babies who blissfully start sleeping through the night in a couple of months. There will also be babies who don't seem as good-natured as yours. Don't get smug or jealous. Like your good friend has said, when you compare, no one wins. You either come off feeling like a loser mom to a child with a more challenging temperament, or you get all high and mighty, thinking at least your baby is not as (cranky, demanding, insert negative adjective) as So-and-So's child, and at least you don't wear sweatpants every day.
I know you're tired, but you're trying to convince the rest of the world you're a super mom. Why? Why not just try to accept that you're an imperfect human who depends upon supernatural grace? Don't forget to pray. When you find the hosue dark and quiet, and you are awake with your little insomniac, offer it up, pray that your love will be enough to raise a happy, kind child, but when it's not, that God might fill in the gaps. His light shines the best through your cracks. Remember that. You always try so hard at everything you do, but motherhood isn't some project you can manage if you work hard enough. This quest to be the best is admirable, but it's exhausting, too. It's exhausting to make perfection your goal. It's prideful, too. Remember, what I just told you: You're not in control. That child of yours is going to hold her poop in for 15 days when she's a toddler. The pediatrician will tell you before this happens that it won't be possible, that you and Mr. Miralax will be able to make her poop; yet, despite your dedicated run as a poop doula ("Push, Love! You can do it!"), despite her tears and your own, She. Will. Not. Poop. And one day as you sit in the bathroom for the billionth time that day, you finally throw in the white flag of surrender. You scream in frustration and then you let it go (one day a very popular song with those same lyrics will play over and over in your mininvan, and you'll have to let that go, too). You're not giving up, but you're ready to give up trying to control your daughter or to see her choices as a reflection of your worth as a mother.
Also, you don't have to be as focused on that little one as laser beam – so much so that you forget to do some of the things you love. You read that stupid article in a parenting magazine about how one mom decided to never read a book while nursing because she felt like she wasn't giving her baby her full attention, and you suffered so many pangs of guilt that you stopped reading while nursing for several months even though you'd really enjoyed reading while nursing, and you also started feeling guilty about the long walks you took with the baby in the stroller. Maybe she needed more tummy time. And what would the pediatrician say if she knew you bit her paperthin nails rather than clipping them because you were afraid you might nip the skin, which you spared your first daughter from but you made your second baby bleed and she wailed and so did you, but she still loved you, and she didn't end up emotionally or physically scarred because of your mishap. You know what? Focused attention is important for children, but so is keeping your sanity. Read a damn book when you nurse. Don't worry: you'll read plenty of books with your next three children, and you won't even feel guilty about it. Seriously, you nurse for hours and hours every day. Sometimes you gaze into those sleepy, steel-gray eyes of your little love, but sometimes it's okay to avert your gaze to a book.
And the book doesn't have to be something literary or scholarly either. If you want to read some superficial but fun chick lit, go for it. You have a whole lifetime to share your love for great literature with your children. Same goes for music. There's that strong message from society that need to give our kids a head start. Start playing Mozart while the baby's still in the womb. Pull out the flashcards at birth! Whatever. You have always thought all that push for more activities, stimulation, flash cards, etc. is stupid, but you second guess yourself sometimes because so many moms seem to be enrolling their babies – yes, babies! – in enrichment classes, but the only one who probably really needs the enrichment is the poor parent who is weary of reading books with monosyllabic words. Your baby will be just fine playing with measuring spoons you hand her while you're baking. Listen to The Beatles if you want. And don't even think about buying flashcards. Tell your baby about your day. Point out the little joys around you – see that sunny daffodil, little one. Hear those church bells. Smell that coffee.
Ah, yes, coffee.
You refused to drink it while pregnant and nursing with your first. What if something went wrong? Thankfully, it didn't, but when you lost a baby to miscarriage, do you really think it was your fault? That drinking that one or two cups of coffee in the morning took your baby from you? Of course, give your best. Make smart, healthy choices most of the time. Eat well. Be well. But one glass of wine after you nurse or a cup (or two!) of coffee in the morning are okay.
Oh, and that was nice of you to make the banana bread for all of your visitors when your baby was less than a week old, but it wasn't necessary, and I'm pretty sure a few people thought you were more insane than Martha Stewart-ish. Your baby needs you more than your guests need a homemade breakfast. Your baby needs you more than the furniture needs polishing. Everyone has been telling you that babies grow up so quickly and to enjoy these precious first few months, and you mostly appreciate this wisdom, but sometimes you wish they'd just be quiet. I know, I know. But maybe I'm just a little excited for the next stage! You do enjoy your baby and you take a thousand pictures of her every day (you've taken a fourth of that amount of your fourth child, but he still very much loved), but you also can't wait to not have veiny boobs the size of cantaloupes (just wait, dear, they will soon be back to their small size and you miss the melons a bit). You can't wait to sleep more than three fragmented hours a night. You can't wait to witness your baby's first smile, belly laugh, and toddling steps. Patience has never been your strength. You're always racing ahead. Your enthusiasm for life is wonderful, but slow down a little. It will take the fourth baby to really teach you this. When he arrives, you finally start napping some. You finally feel okay about just sitting around and doing, well, nothing. You finally give yourself permission to pursue things that truly make you happy instead of doing things you think should make you happy or the things you think make you look like an uber mom.
Likewise, it will take a few more kids to reveal to you that you really are a baby person. Some moms don't like that lump stage so much (your husband used to say that newborns are one big, cute GI tract; food goes in and then it goes out), but you love it. Maybe because of its beautiful simplicity. A baby's needs and wants are the same. This can be exhausting, but it's also more straightforward than dealing with older children, and it's more physically taxing than emotionally so. Things get more complicated as that baby grows up and starts exerting her (strong!) will on you and the world. Just wait until she gets older, and you're not sure if she's really thirsty or if that "I need a cup of water" is a ploy to stall bedtime either further. Wait until you can't make her feel better after someone hurts her feelings with just a hug. You'll discover soon enough that you can't kiss away every tear or boo-boo.
Perhaps you also love having a baby around because it gives you an excuse to say no and to accept your limitations. The good news is you get better and better at protecting your primary vocation as a wife and mom and learning to set boundaries and to not say yes to too many commitments outside of the home.
I wish you could have started learning some of these lessons earlier, but you can't force growth. You needed to be pruned, and boy, has motherhood pruned you. There was a lot that had to be cut away – your desire for control, your busy, worker bee mentality, your impossible quest for perfection in your mothering and your children, your stubborn refusal to sleep when a 20-minute power nap would have done wonders for you and your family – so that you could grow, progress, and bear great fruit.
But here I am getting all serious on you. There are few other things you need to know. First off, if your baby is doing something cute and you pull out the camera, she will stop doing it immediately. You will try over and over to get her to do that cute, little thing one more time or to look at you in that wonderful way one more time, and it will not happen – until you put the camera away. Get used to it. It will happen over and over with every single child. Also, that little baby is more portable than you think. Now it's true that she doesn't sleep as much as "normal" babies (filled with fear when your second is born and sleeps all of the time, you call your mom and tell her that you're worried because she sleeps ALL OF THE TIME, but your mom reassures you,"That's what babies are supposed to do." Who knew? You certainly didn't after Madeline was born.) Don't be afraid to go to your favorite coffee shop with your baby in tow or to enjoy a picnic with your husband. There's no need to be holed up at home all of the time.
Oh, and when others offer advice, kindly thank them and then do whatever the heck you want or think is best for your baby and for yourself. That man who went on and on about how fat your baby was and how he ("She," you informed him) looked like a linebacker should not have worried you. You can't nurse a baby too much. That fat, roly-poly baby is now a super-tall, athletic girl, and there's no sign of the Michelin Man in her anymore. And that other person who said your baby needed a hat on because it was cold outside obviously did not see the back of her head, which was sticky with sweat. You're doing just fine. You know your baby well.
And that well-meaning mother who told you you needed to sleep train your baby if you wanted to get any sleep, she shouldn't have made you second-guess yourself. Do you remember the one night you tried to let her cry it out and how it made you fall apart and your boobs felt like achy rocks? Your baby cried; you wanted to respond to her. And so did Daddy. You guys are wimps. Do what your gut – and heart – tell you to do. You enjoy sleeping with your babies (um and kids), and it doesn't matter if others think your marriage must not be as strong as others because you share a family bed. Don't worry about what anyone thinks of you or your parenting choices.
A very practical tip: Stock your car with extra diapers. The "Poopenator" may go through diapers with amazing alacrity. Best to be prepared. An extra wardrobe change is prudent as well and when she gets older, be sure to stock the car with snacks and extra water. Your kids will be the kinds that are always hungry, especially if you have just given them a snack and headed out to run errands.
You don't know everything, but you know a lot more than you think. Remember what I said earlier? You really are the best expert when it comes to your child and how to parent them. And just so you know: You are going to mess up. A lot. Oh, for awhile you get kind of smug. When you were still pregnant with your first, you were at Target, and there was a little boy who kept asking his mom, "Why?" She tried to answer his endless queries until she finally snapped, "I don't know 'why'! Would you stop saying that?" You inwardly winced and thought to yourself, "I will never squash my children's natural curiosity." Ha. Fast forward a few years, and you're pretty sure you've sighed when a child has asked yet another question. "I don't know. Go Google it."
"Mommy, look at this bug!"
It's the fiftieth bug your intrepid bug catcher has captured in the last two minutes as you've attempted to coral everyone at the soccer fields, so you can get everyone home, fed, and bathed before midnight (you're a little like Cinderella and turn not-so-pretty if you don't have any quiet, solo time before midnight), so you don't really look at it and mutter, "Oh wow."
She detects your lack of enthusiasm. The poor bug probably does, too. "Hey, Lady. I might die during this little exhibition. The least you could do is take a good look at my intact awesomeness."
Your daughter isn't as nice as the bug.
So you look a little harder, but it escapes and zips away. "NOW IT'S GONE! NOW I HAVE TO CATCH ANOTHER ONE TO SHOW YOU BEFORE WE GO HOME!"
"No, you don't you say," and you scoop an angry child into your arms and dodge her windmill legs and arms as you stomp over to the car.
Oh, dear mother at Target, I am so, so sorry for judging you!
When your first baby is on the cusp of toddlerhood, you're at a playdate, and you hear a mother tell her child that if he hits again, they will have to leave. The child bops another child on the head. They don't leave. Inside, you're tsking, tsking that poor, weary mother and are convinced you will always be consistent and carry through with discipline. You won't ever spank or yell. You will be gentle but firm. You've got this. But one day you don't. Your husband has been MIA, working long hours. You're recovering from a violent stomach bug. Your 15-month-old has stopped taking even her quick 20 minute naps. She sometimes falls asleep in the car, though, so you decide to take a little drive, hoping she will finally succumb to the Sandman. The little drive turns into a long one. You live in South Carolina. You eventually find yourself in North Carolina. Your little lark is still chirping away, eyes wide open. You park the car, and you start to cry. Then you yell, "Why won't you just go to sleep?" Your child's lower lip begins to tremble, and she starts to cry. She hides her face from you. She's afraid of you. You're an awful mother. Only you're not. You're a human mother. Soon enough you will learn that you do sometimes yell. You don't always dole out compassion when that is exactly what your child needs. You struggle with anxiety and depression but are afraid to admit because, damn it, you should be happy because you are living a charmed life. Sometimes you think every other mom out there never loses her cool, is always gentle and kind, and doesn't ever feel that being a mother is the most wonderful, terrible job in the world. But one day that firstborn of yours will grow up, and she will come up to you and pat you on the back and tell you that you can't do anything to take away her love for her and you don't need to earn her love either. And another child will write you a beautiful, "just because" letter telling you that you are like a flower that everyone wants to be around, and your son will thunk you on the head (affectionately, of course), and your other little girl will tell you that you are very pretty, and you'll feel that maybe just maybe you've done a few things right after all, and maybe just maybe a divine kind of love is glorified through your imperfections.
Just a few more thoughts , new mama. When you're in a rut, remind yourself, "This too shall pass." You will sleep again. You will feel human again. Your child won't always wear diapers, scream at you because you cut her sandwich into rectangles instead of triangles, draw on your walls, pick her nose, etc. It will get easier and harder. No stage of parenthood is simple, but none of it lasts for forever either.
Last but not least, soak up these precious moments with your baby. I know everyone is telling you that, but try to remind yourself that all those people who kind of annoy you by saying that you're going to miss having a baby someday actually are right because a decade from now your youngest will be two, your oldest will be almost 10 going on 30, and you won't have a baby in the house, and your heart will feel a little bit empty. And you'll hold your sweet, new niece, beautiful Ellyn, and you'll start to cry out of joy for the miracle that is her, and out of gratitude for your brother and his wife who are starting their own incredible parenting journey, and there will be some tears thrown in there that are wistful and full of longing. "I want a baby," you'll say out loud, by mistake. Everyone laughs in the room, and you laugh, too, because you know you are blessed to have four beautiful children, but you also know you'll never regret the child you have, but you may find yourself wondering, hoping, dreaming for the child who didn't make it into your arms. You silently tell your ovaries to stop twitching. What will be will be. All you can do is embrace the now. Don't look back, but don't be afraid of a future that might not have what you think you want or need. Yes, your bedtime routine with your first was ridiculous. Remember how you held her hand for hours even when she was three years old? That was a little over-the-top, wasn't it? But make sure when that big girl asks for you to give her a backrub or lay beside her that you do it because one day she will be gone. Poof! Like that. Every baby you will ever have will grow up. There's no stopping it, so just enjoy those sweet children entrusted to you, and always, always remember you are a good enough mom, and one day you'll have a chance to be a good aunt (and God-willing grandmother!).
Babies don't keep, but thankfully the memories do. Now go make some with that baby of yours. You are going to have a great life together!