ready and not.

FYI...public opinion on my Impending Delivery Status has officially shifted from, "Oh, only a few more weeks to go? Wow, you look great!" to, "Oh, next week. [Knowing nod.] Mm-hmm. Yep!" - often accompanied by a smirk that says I don't know, lady...I bet he'll be here before that. 

In other words, yeah, I look ready.

(Here's me at 37 weeks, 2 days with Rowan...I guess pretty much the same?)

And I definitely feel ready. I am so tired so much of the time, needing to summon every ounce of energy for every necessary task. But otherwise - are we really ready? Like, ready to become a family of four, ready to handle a newborn, house ready, plans ready? Totally! 

...Aaaand also not at all. I've had evolving to-do lists floating around for weeks now - one for me, one for J.J. - and they're sort of complete. The baby clothes have been located and washed. The diaper trash cans are now de-spidered from their sojourn in the crawl space, along with the bouncy seat and the Rock 'N' Play. The car seat bases are installed in both of our cars. The breast pump was located and sanitized (Rowan peered closely at it and declared, "I loved ONLY that when I was a baby." Truth.). Rowan's dance recital and preschool graduation (from the three-year-old class, not from preschool entirely) are over, so I won't miss those if I go into labor. I haven't technically packed a hospital bag, but there's a bag on the rocking chair with some stuff piled next to it (I cannot for the life of me remember what to bring to the hospital, other than my toothbrush, contact solution, and a phone charger).

But, god, the things that aren't ready? Flerrrrggghh. The nursery, which I know doesn't need to be finished but will take so. much. longer with a baby around. The non-baby stuff on my to-do list, like Etsy orders and calling the electrician and getting an oil change. The pile of All The Things on our entryway table, which teeters and leans and intermittently ejects things like Fun Run medals and incomplete health insurance forms. A birth plan, considering I'm still only like 94% sure that a c-section is the way to go. And, of course, a name. A MOTHERLOVING NAME.

I guess I've been more focused on getting Rowan ready than myself, honestly. My baby girl, who's been asking to be a big sister since before she was two, is as ready as she can possibly be, given that she has absolutely no idea how her life is about to shift. I mean:

:: She helped (...I use that term loosely) fold the baby's clothes and wipe down all of her old baby gear.

:: She's made seven thousand pictures and paintings "to hang up in my baby's room."

:: She requested that we turn her car seat around and make room for the baby seat months ago. We finally did it last weekend, and every car ride is a full-on adventure now. The main reason we hadn't turn her forward-facing yet was laziness, and I'm kind of glad we waited. Beyond the safety benefits of extended rear-facing, it's hilarious to hear her revelations about facing forwards now. I started recording her on my phone partway through our first drive because I was laughing so hard (I'll put a little transcript at the end of this post...I was dying).

:: She and I wrote a list of things she and Gramma are supposed to accomplish while J.J. and the baby and I are at the hospital. She wants to make and bring cupcakes for the baby, since it will be his birthday (awww). When I explained that he wouldn't be able to actually eat the cupcakes, Rowan shrugged: "Well, we'll just make the cupcakes white and the frosting white so it looks like milk!" Lol. Problem solved. She also remembers from my stories about when she was born that Gramma made our couch into a bed for me after my c-section and brought over delicious fresh fruit, so she wants to do that again; she wants to tie balloons to our front porch, just like when she was born; and she wants to bring the baby his new teddy bear.

:: Speaking of the baby's teddy bear - Rowan helped me pick out a lovey for him that we could use in his weekly pictures, just like we did with Mosby when Rowan was a baby.

{The day she came home from the hospital}

{One year old}

Rowan took the task very seriously, although I did have to narrow down the field for her after she discovered a talking, light-up, life-size Doc McStuffins doll and exclaimed, "I think the baby would LOVE this!" Yeah, no. I found two cute owls and she found a bear, and I let her choose from the three. I was hoping she would choose one of the owls (they were really cute), but she went with the bear...and was pretty proud of her choice:

:: He's always on her mind, as evidenced by the little things she does. For example, my mother-in-law made a cute door latch-catcher for the nursery out of the fabric we're using for the crib skirt and window treatments. Our bedroom doors are annoyingly loud and don't always stay closed well, so the latch-catchers have been extremely helpful. I bought one for the nursery from Etsy before Rowan was born, and my mother-in-law made one for Rowan's big kid room. The old one from her nursery was hanging out somewhere - maybe on top of the nursery dresser? - until I realized one day that someone had hung it on the master bedroom door:

When I asked around, Rowan said she did it, "because that's where the baby sleeps when he's first born, so you need to be quiet with the door." Also, she was coloring the other day and made a "book" for the baby out of paper. Then she cheerfully told me, "I'm going to go put this in the baby's room!" and disappeared up the stairs. I didn't really think about it again until I went into the nursery a few days later and discovered that she'd put her "book" on the baby's bookshelf. Love.

{It's hiding right there in front of Goodnight Moon, on the bottom shelf}

:: She wanted to hang up a calendar like the Countdown to Florida one that we made. I thought it was a great idea, since she was getting a little twitchy post-Florida, not having any real sense of how much time was left before the baby would be here. Calendars are so not developmentally appropriate for every three-year-old, but they really jive with the way Rowan operates, so I was happy to comply. She, of course, insisted that my printer-paper-and-washable-marker calendar was insufficient and that we invest in one just like her teacher uses at school...so I ordered one off Amazon...which is how we accidentally ended up with a GIANT calendar. Whatever.

:: The last major way we've helped Rowan prepare for her baby brother's arrival is just talking. I don't like to bring it up constantly because I don't want to overdo it, but she brings it up all the time. Every time she does something helpful, like bringing her dishes to the sink or holding my hand in the parking lot, she asks, "Was that a big sister thing to do?!" I always say yes, even though she inevitably follows up with, "Why?" And then I'm forced to explain how, say, putting the caps back on her markers is somehow a "big sister thing to do." (FYI, the answer in that scenario is, "So the baby won't swallow the caps if they roll onto the floor.") She loves to talk to my belly and tell the baby all the things he won't be able to do until he's a big kid like her (eat certain foods, sleep over at Gramma's, pump on the swing, etc.). She makes me tell her the story of when she was "very first born" every night, which I think is one way she's trying to wrap her head around what's going to happen when her brother is very first born. 

And, finally, while 98% of Rowan's baby-related talk is gushing with love and excitement, I wanted to make space for other feelings, too. I'm certainly experiencing feelings besides just love and excitement, so I've explained more than a few times that when mommies are pregnant and when the baby first comes out, mommies' bodies have a lot of hormones - which I described as "chemicals that are helpful for growing and healing, but that can make people have really big feelings." (It's...possible...I most recently had the hormone conversation with her over breakfast this morning, after I tearfully apologized for being a raging bitch cranky with her about her waffle.) We've talked about the fact that she might have lots of big feelings when her baby comes home, too - excited, happy, nervous, angry, sad, loving, annoyed, etc. And I asked Rowan one night when we were snuggling at bedtime if she had any worries about having a baby brother. She surprised me by answering yes immediately, her eyes filling up with tears: "What if the baby spits up on my rug?" she sobbed. Her other big concern is that the baby will chew on her books or her stuffed friends. We talk, and talk, and talk some more, and hopefully she'll feel safe to keep talking as we navigate big sisterhood.


********************

So, yeah. We're ready. And we're not. But, as one of my friends from my new mom group (guess we're not "new moms" now, four years later...) reminded me the other day, isn't that exactly how it feels a week before you have a baby?

I'm going with yes.

{Ready to not have a built-in cupholder for Rowan,
who handed this to me and said, "Here, Baby. Can
you hold this on Mommy's belly for me?"}

**Oh - here's the transcript I promised from Rowan's first forward-facing car ride. Her words have not been altered. She talked the ENTIRE TIME, but I only recorded part of it, and I could not stop laughing. You've never heard anyone as excited as Rowan riding forwards:

"Ha! It's fun to be facing frontwards! Some people might think that I'm a grown-up. Ahh, so that's what I couldn't see when I was facing backwards! I see one cute little doggie and one cute bicycle. Oh, that's a cool slide they've got there! I'll tell the baby when the light is red and when the light is green. And I'll tell you if you forget to tell me, and then I will tell the baby. Hey, this is where you went to celebrate Donald Trumpet! [She meant the spot downtown where she and J.J. dropped me off at the inauguration protest...I died when she said that!] I see a police car! This is as fast as my bike goes down the hill. Now I'll be kind of like a babysitter for our baby [because they'll be alone in the back seat together]. I was just - woohooooo!! Hey, there's some construction over there! Hey, what's happening over there? Hey, I see another police car! Weeeeee! Woohooooo!! Do you see those doggies, Mama? Cute doggies! That car has a paw on it [a dog paw magnet]. And a wiper in the back - that's weird! - and even in the front! Why are there things that look like water on the road? Oh, I know, it's from the construction that they're doing over there from the pipes. Over there - on that crosswalk - there are baaaaad things going on over there [still not sure what she meant by that]. I'm glad we're not over there! And over there is a traffic jam!"

May you take this much joy in your next car ride. :) 

nocturnal mission impossible.

Somehow I forgot.

I forgot that, as a parent, you are not to even think, let alone speak, about the times when sleep is going well. You shall be punished. Swiftly. Harshly.

Similarly, it is not advised to ever wonder, to yourself or aloud, "how bad" it could be when you have two kids waking you up at night instead of just one.

The following events occurred last night and are true to the best of my recollection, which is spotty at this point, given both my advanced stage of pregnancy and almost complete lack of sleep last night.


********************

SETTING: Midwestern suburban household. Monday night.

7:45 P.M.
I close my three-year-old's bedroom door, calling, "Good night! I love you, sweet girl!" "I love you, too, Mommy!" she responds. 

9:00 P.M.
I bitterly ascend the stairs to remind spawn that she actually does need to sleep at night, not just bounce around and sing (scream) every song she knows. I help her rearrange her stuffed friends, which are scattered all over her bed (she has about thirty [dozen] stuffed friends in her bed). I lay with her for a few minutes, savoring her sweet bath smell and snuggles. I crawl out of bed with massive effort (exhausted + super preggo = hard to get out bed, mentally and physically) when it becomes clear she's not going to fall asleep with me in the bed.

10:15 P.M.
I'm jolted awake from an accidental couch nap to the sound of gurgling snot and crying. Waddle upstairs, wipe a nose, bid daughter good night again. Close the windows and turn on the air conditioning, just in case her frequent wakings are due to allergies or being too hot. Go pee, as my body now requires me to do the second it has produced urine molecules. Collapse into my own bed...and lay there, wiiiide awake.

11:15 P.M.
Finally drift back off to sleep.

11:30 P.M.
Jolt awake to the sound of gurgling snot and crying. Waddle into daughter's bedroom, wipe her nose, go pee, collapse back into my own bed.

12:15 A.M.
Have now read everything there is to read on the internet, weathered a round of Internal Fetal Parkour, and am finally drifting back off to sleep.

12:20 A.M.
LEGS. RESTLESS LEGS. LEGS ARE ON FIRE AND MUST BE MOVED CONSTANTLY. Legs are too hot; body is too cold. Legs must be stretched; legs must be shifted. Legs legs legs legs the whole world is now my legs and their incomprehensible demands.

12:45 A.M.
Consider cutting off legs, but finally drift back off to sleep while contemplating which cutting device to use.

12:47 A.M.
Jolt awake to the sound of gurgling snot and crying. Waddle into daughter's bedroom, wipe her nose, go pee, collapse back into my own bed.

12:52 A.M.
Why isn't there more stuff to read on the internet? Why isn't anyone posting new pictures or updating their statuses? I need something to read! WAKE UP EVERYONE AND UPDATE YOUR INTERNETS!

1 A.M. OR SOME SHIT, I DON'T KNOW
Finally drift back off to sleep.

2:10 A.M.
Jolt awake to the sound of my name. "Mama! I can't find Hayjack!" Fucking Hayjack, her little stuffed cat slash extra appendage as of late. Waddle into daughter's bedroom, locate Hayjack literally (LITERALLY) right next to her arm, wipe her nose for good measure, go pee, collapse back into my own bed, actually fall asleep again immediately.

3:15 A.M.
Jolt awake to the sound of crying. "Mama! I had a bad dream!" Apparently, in her dream, "a boy who wasn't a little baby but wasn't a grown-up" pulled out Hayjack's eye and was tugging on a thread from Hayjack, unraveling him (a frequent nightmare of hers). Comfort daughter, tuck her back in, go pee, climb into bed.

3:33 A.M.
Trying to sleep, but unable to due to the sensation of a nearly full-size baby stretching luxuriously in my abdomen, hands on my rectum, head on my cervix, feet under my ribs. Roll over with great effort and grunting and notice flashes of lightning coming from outside. Fuuuuuuck, a thunderstorm? Now? Are you kidding me? Check my weather app, which indicates 0% chance of rain but a 70% chance of thunderstorms. Thunder starts rumbling. Wait for daughter to cry out in fear - she hates thunder these days - but somehow, she's already back asleep after her nightmare, and she stays asleep.

3:47 A.M.
Realize I forgot to tally up how many preschool forms were returned and mark down who still needs to turn one in, which was my job. Remind self of all the scary things the baby will almost definitely be diagnosed with, whether at birth or in two months or in twenty years. Wonder if daughter is still breathing, considering the thunder didn't wake her up. Mull over the seventy-four things I intend to complete before the baby is born, like raise the crib mattress and decide whether we can really handle a second child. Remember how awkward I was the other day with that neighbor I don't really know, and also how awkward I was in every social situation since age two.

4:15 A.M.
Finally drift back off to sleep.

6:26 A.M.
There's the thunder I was waiting for. Daughter wails. Waddle into her bedroom, find her still laying in bed with her hands over her ears and her eyes squeezed shut. Wipe her nose, climb into her bed, and soothe her fears about how the electricity from the lightning can't "electro-cate" us while we're in the house and how we'd be able to float away from the lightning if we ever "lose our gravity."

6:30 A.M.
Alarm goes off in the other room.


/SCENE

********************

And you know what the scary part is? A night like this will seem heavenly and restful during the first couple months postpartum. HAHAHAHAHAHA CRAP WHAT HAVE WE DONE ONLY TWO AND A HALF WEEKS TO GO WHAT HAVE WE DOOOOONNNNNNNNE

IT HAS ARRIVED!

No...the baby has not arrived. Just its precursor: the pre-baby, end-of-third-trimester official raging bitchiness.

Trying to escape via land kayak. Best of luck.

Please hold J.J. and Rowan in your thoughts as we navigate these tumultuous times. Recent infractions on their parts have included: putting a dirty glass on the counter instead of in the dishwasher; moving the hand soap to the (clearly wrong) side of the sink; wanting to cuddle with an inflated helium balloon during nap; heating up the worst-smelling sauce EVER on some chicken & quinoa; leaving tiny stupid Shopkins on the polka-dot rug where they blend in and then stab my foot; wanting another Band-Aid for another nonexistent boo-boo; and distributing forms into the wrong tote bags when filling in for me as the parent volunteer at preschool. Doesn't matter which of them committed which crime; my responses were all equally - um - whatever the word is that I'm trying to think of but that won't come because pregnancy brain fog has descended and words are hard now.

Poor, poor souls

I actually had planned to write up a lovely post this lovely afternoon about our lovely babymoon vacation to lovely Naples, a post full of lovely pictures and lovely memories and lovely gratitude. But no. The bitchiness is pouring out. You guys. I'm only 35 weeks along. I could potentially have TWO MONTHS of this left, if I leave my body and the baby to their own devices. Oh, in case you're wondering, in terms of a birth plan? I'm currently vacillating among the following options:

   (1) a planned c-section at 39 weeks (June 2nd)
   (2) a vaginal delivery anytime between now and, you know, June FREAKING 23rd, which would be two weeks past my due date
   (3) a home c-section performed this afternoon by me because screw this
   (4) a spontaneous bellybutton birth

The bellybutton birth is an option I was unaware of until this pregnancy, when my sweet fetus decided to lodge himself firmly against the interior of my belly skin. Rowan was a lot more...internal? I don't know; I just definitely never looked down in horror and wondered if she was going to LITERALLY bust through my bellybutton. I spent last night on my back on the couch with an ice pack over my bellybutton (the special ice pack I got after my boob biopsy, which I also meant to write a post about), trying to convince an unborn child to calm down already and retreat back inside. It sort of worked, or at least I fell asleep after awhile and was no longer aware of the pain.

It's possible I overdid it yesterday, contributing to my intense discomfort all evening. I went for a walk Sunday morning (while J.J. and Rowan were at a 5k Fun Run that was, in part, benefitting my nephew, and so I felt like a guilty crap aunt for not being there, especially when I then felt motivated enough around 11 a.m. to take a walk). The walk felt so good that I ended up jogging about a half mile of it. I do not advise a random jog when you're nearly nine months pregnant and have not jogged in...nearly nine months. Especially when you then have to volunteer at (another) Fun Run until 6 p.m. - AKA, be on your feet and active for the rest of the day. It was not my smartest move, hence the couch and the ice pack and the whining. Oh, and the exhaustion, which led to the bitchiness, which led to the intense guilt, which led to the overcompensating, which was cut short when I couldn't even get my shoes on, which led to the hormonal tears.

(Please feel free to print this post and distribute it as birth control for the masses.)

Anyway. I don't even really have anything of value to say right now, except that I forgot about this stage of pregnancy - the last month, where I'm just. over. it. Props to the designer(s) behind pregnancy for structuring it like this so that by the time labor and delivery roll around, I'll be ready to extract the baby by any means necessary. I'm thrilled that he's been in there cooking long enough that everything should be about ready to go by now - just adding some fat layers to both of us at this point, but the major structures and functions should be in order. We're damn lucky to have gotten to this point. And even though the next stage is the stage I've been dreading...the newborn/postpartum recovery stage, which was my hardest time with Rowan...I just want to not have someone's knee knocking my snacks off my belly shelf from the inside anymore. #rude. Also I want to be able to eat snacks without feeling full after two crackers because my stomach has been relocated to somewhere in my ribs.

It's now three o'clock and I haven't woken Rowan up from her nap yet, which means I just doomed us to a night where she won't go to sleep before ten o'clock, because did you know she's officially not really needing naps anymore? Because the best time to grow out of naps is right before your baby sibling arrives? Hmm, let's see, can I find anything ELSE to complain about before this post ends?!

We're pretty much either in "exchanging flowers
and squeezy hugs" mode or "exchanging hateful
words that we both instantly regret" mode lately.

No. No more complaining. Time to just end it (uh, the post, I mean). Here, have some photos of a baby plotting to escape via bellybutton. The first one was taken in Florida at 32 weeks, 5 days, and I promise I'll share a much happier post about that amazing trip soon. You know...right after this wave of cray-cray passes. So like March of 2018-ish.

that fourth trimester though...

So I've been trying to get a video of this for like twenty minutes, but I'm sitting here on the couch and watching the baby kick so hard that it's actually knocking things off my belly. Ha! Of course, every time I aim the phone in the right direction, he quiets down. I guess it's My Eyes Only for now. :)

I have to say, I am getting legit excited to meet this baby. A new smoosh to snuggle, new cheeks to kiss, a new tush to squeeze, and I seriously can't wait to see Rowan and Browan (as we've jokingly been calling him - Rowan's brother = Bro-wan, geddit geddit?) interact with each other. 

The other day, my friend posted a picture of her newborn napping on her chest with the caption, "The fourth trimester is the best trimester." (The "fourth trimester" refers to the three months postpartum.) Ha! I scoffed. In fact, I was almost...insulted? I truly didn't understand how that would be possible. That postpartum stage was the worst "trimester" by far for me the first time around. Granted, my friend had hyperemesis gravidarum (aka constant barfing during your entire freaking pregnancy), so she basically just endured a nine-month battle with norovirus and is thrilled to be on the other side. Still, trying to imagine how my fourth trimester will be this time around, from the cushy vantage point of a dreamy second trimester (so much energy, so much sleep, so not sick, so not sore from birthing and nursing), doesn't leave much to be desired. In fact, I'll just say it: I've been DREADING that fourth trimester. It's what made me nervous about ever having another baby.

Thinking about it logically, there were a lot of reasons I struggled so much and hated the first few months after Rowan was born. I mean...


::1. Breastfeeding issues
I've talked a lot here about all the issues we had with breastfeeding, which led to me exclusively pumping for more than a year. I have a different outlook on breast milk these days (understanding that fed is best, versus breast is best), but whew, those nursing troubles in the first couple months postpartum totally threw me for a loop. Every feeding was a battle, and the breastfeeding process (finger-tube-feed, then bottle, then pump for twenty minutes, then wash everything) left less than an hour between feedings for sleeping, feeding myself, peeing, etc. I never experienced the postpartum joy of lying around with a sleeping baby on you, because there was no time for me to lay around.


::2. Postpartum mood disorder
I also had pretty bad postpartum anxiety, no doubt exacerbated by Rowan's feeding issues. The anxiety robbed me of a lot of that bliss that new moms experience; everything was tainted by worry and fear. I wrote an article for the Scary Mommy website about it and appeared on a local news segment to discuss what helped, so I've spent a lot of time processing it all, but it still looms as my primary recollection of being a new mom: feeling terrified.


::3. Rough c-section recovery
I'm not sure exactly what I expected, but recovering from my c-section (which was planned, since she was breech) was way harder than I'd anticipated, based on stories from friends who'd had them. In the hospital, I couldn't lay flat without passing out, but I couldn't sit up without searing pain in my abdomen. I walked hunched over for weeks and couldn't get on or off the couch without help. There was the unsettling combo of extreme numbness around my incision site, but horrific sensitivity at the edges of the numbness. Keeping track of all the post-surgical meds I was on - Percocet, ibuprofen, a prophylactic laxative - was a round-the-clock job. Plus, no one ever told me how or when to start stepping down the meds, so I was still taking the full dose of Percocet at two weeks postpartum (not typical, apparently). The Percocet made me foggy and sleepy, causing me to nod off every time I pumped, and I couldn't follow conversations or focus on anything. I quit cold turkey when a lactation consultant mentioned I probably didn't need to be on the full dose anymore, that maybe it was contributing to Rowan's sleepiness at the breast, and it was like the world came back to life. All in all, post-surgery, I felt beyond frustrated that I couldn't just jump back into life the way it seemed like my friends had done. It made me feel weak.


::4. Sleep deprivation
I know, boo-hoo, another mom complaining about sleep deprivation. It's hard for everyone, but I will give myself a little credit and say that my experience was slightly different from the norm. Not only was I recovering from major surgery (and literally did not sleep for more than thirty minutes in a row until we left the hospital after three days), but we had to wake Rowan up to feed her every three hours, per doctor's orders. As I described above, our breastfeeding routine was so involved that there was only about an hour out of every three hours that I could even possibly be sleeping, and my anxiety caused insomnia during a lot of those one-hour chunks. Since Rowan was slow to gain weight, we didn't let her sleep longer than three hours during the night for months, which meant I didn't sleep for more than an hour or so at a time for months.


::5. Lack of routine
This messed with me more than I realized. Everyone loves to claim that they're spontaneous and flexible and easygoing, that they don't want to be pinned down by a rigid schedule...but that only actually holds true for a small percentage of the population. Most people don't realize how important routines are in their lives, because they take them for granted. Go to work, go home, spend time with friends and family - there can be a lot of variability within the structure, but most people know what to expect from their day-to-day lives, and knowing what to expect is beneficial.

I, for one, thrive on routine. It doesn't have to be intensely specific (I eat lunch at 12:15 exactly), but I like predictability (on Tuesdays, we go the library for story time). I'm not going to throw a tantrum just because the museum turns out to be closed or school's out for the week or my meeting gets rescheduled. It's more that I thrive when I don't have to expend energy adjusting to constant changes, big and little. Some people thrive when their everyday routines are mixed up - livened up, they'd be more likely to describe it. Spontaneity invigorates them. Me, I'm happiest when I know what to expect and have a decent routine in place.

All this to say - routines are pretty much thrown out the window during the fourth trimester. Not only are you adjusting to a new baby and new motherhood, but you're also adjusting to the weird abyss of maternity leave (if you're fortunate enough to have one). I know I was lucky to have twelve weeks to be home with my newborn, but it was tough to have the days (and the long, long nights) stretch out endlessly in front of me. I'm also an introvert, and what little energy I had was completely sapped by having constant visitors (who I wanted to hang out with but couldn't actually handle for more than about fifteen-minute stretches) and a multitude of appointments (lactation consultants, pediatricians, occupational therapy for the baby, psychiatry for me). There was no time alone, no time to recharge, and I wasn't able to recognize the effect that was having on me, let alone figure out a solution to it.


::6. Feeling alone
The friends who'd given birth around the same time as me seemed to be adjusting way more easily than I was. They'd post snuggly pictures, claiming to love the time when it was just Mama and Baby, quiet together in the hush of the night. Meanwhile, I'd be scrolling through Facebook while attached to the pump at three a.m., trying desperately to stay awake through a Percocet haze, sometimes looking longingly at my husband while he cuddled our baby and a bottle of my hard-earned breastmilk - and sometimes shooting daggers of rage at him and the baby as they slept peacefully through the rhythmic nipple-yanking I was experiencing. One friend who'd had a c-section within a few days of mine posted a picture of her sweet little family on a hike in the woods together, baby happily ensconced in an Ergo, pausing to nurse and grin for the camera. Meanwhile, I couldn't stand up straight without level-nine shooting pains at my incision site, my baby hated being worn, and every feeding was a three-person, hour-long ordeal that always involved tears from at least one of us. Basically, everyone else seemed to be assimilating, and I still couldn't figure out how to dress myself (nursing bra? nursing tank? what pants do I wear when I'm too big for regular pants but too small for maternity stuff??). What was I doing wrong?


********************

So, you know. All in all, my fourth trimester was a rough time. NOT my favorite trimester.

BUT. I survived. 

Honestly, that alone doesn't give me much comfort. In fact, that's what I've been dreading so much - having to just survive for a few months postpartum. Seeing my friend's picture the other day, though - the one where she claimed "the fourth trimester is the best trimester" - got me thinking.

When has dreading something ever helped make it better? And, actually, doesn't dreading it just make the negativity leak into all my other trimesters? Moreover, who's to say it won't be a completely different experience this time? The truth is that I struggled during the fourth trimester for a multitude of reasons, but none of those reasons is destined to be repeated the second time around. The resources that helped me through my fourth trimester with Rowan are still in place: husband, family, friends, medical professionals. They're all wonderful and necessary, but? I need to recognize that I have even more resources now. 

Friends on Instagram yesterday were quick to point that out when I asked for suggestions on making the fourth trimester a great one. The thing that gives me the most hope, actually, is what one friend said: "Different baby, different mama." Different baby, yes! Don't get me wrong, I adored Baby Rowan and have the best memories of (most of) her first year...but those first three months, oy. However: There's no reason to believe the new baby will have milk-transfer issues leading to an inability to nurse effectively. There's no reason to believe the new baby will be slow to gain weight and have to be woken to eat at all hours of the day and night. Different baby.

More importantly...different mama. A second baby's job is to throw his parents for a loop and make them realize they don't know as much as they thought they did (gee, I'm just so positive and sunny, aren't I?!), but there are a few nuggets of knowledge that can't be taken away:

:: I have a different perspective on the importance of breastfeeding, both for me and for my baby. Fed is best, period. I know it's vital to prioritize myself in the newborn-mother dyad, that the baby's health isn't the only thing that matters at the expense of everything else.

:: I know the warning signs of postpartum anxiety and am already taking steps to prevent it - I'm starting antenatal therapy, and I took a mindfulness class in the fall that's created a huge shift in my well-being. Plus, now I know who to turn to if/when I need support with anxiety.

:: I may or may not have a c-section, but regardless of delivery method, I have a better understanding of how my body is likely to respond to the process, and how long it might take for me - not others - to recover. 

:: I know the sleep deprivation will still be a struggle, but I also know it's temporary. In fact, all the struggles of the fourth trimester are temporary, which was impossible to perceive as a new mom. It truly, truly felt that whatever challenge we were facing - a sleep regression, a nursing strike, teething - was going to last forever.

:: Not only am I used to spending my days at home instead of at work, but having an older child kind of forces some routine to be maintained. She'll still have classes, play dates, and bedtimes, and hopefully those will anchor me instead of stress me out.

:: And as for feeling alone. Well, first of all, I've learned not to believe the social media stories that are constantly curated and presented. Those moms? The ones going for a run when I'm still trying to walk? The ones making a casserole with the baby in a carrier while I'm still grabbing handfuls of Cheerios when I remember to? They're still dealing with passing blood clots and worrying about Baby's poop and being so exhausted that they can't remember their partner's name. Not only that, but I've learned how to use social media to my advantage: asking for nursing advice (and ignoring it when necessary), garnering joy from others' responses to cute baby pictures, posting urgent questions at two a.m. and getting supportive responses. Also, I have a whole community that I didn't have the first time around - my "new mom" group. They're the ones who are in the trenches with me, and they're my favorite place to turn when I'm feeling worried or inadequate. 


********************

I guess the truth is that, no matter what, the fourth trimester is going to have moments of bliss and moments of stress. All I can do is maximize the bliss and manage the stress...you know, pretty much like life in general. I've gotten so much better at that in the three and a half years since I became a mom, which means my job now is to be confident in myself.

Also, I'll pose the same question here that I did on Instagram: Any suggestions to make the fourth trimester go smoothly? I'm open to anything!

Fifteen more weeks to go. :)

giving myself grace: happy valentine's day to me.

So I've been stuck. And I got myself into trouble this weekend.

I somehow got sucked into a cycle of getting really down on myself lately. I'm struggling to do anything beyond sitting on the couch and stuffing my face. I feel like I haven't been doing all the things I love to do with and for Rowan - playing outside every day, coloring together, teaching her board games. I'm disappointed in myself for giving up a writing position that I was enjoying because it was taking wayyyy more time than I had to offer. I made a huge mistake and way underestimated the cost of getting a new bathtub for our only full bathroom - the tub is crumbling and it's non-negotiable at this point whether we get it replaced, but I had no idea installation was going to cost thousands and thousands of dollars. I'm annoyed that I can't do the installation myself (at least of the tile surround and a new cheap floor), the way we did with the kitchen, because I'm pregnant and tired and not willing to sacrifice our bathroom for a month while I get it done in sporadic thirty-minute chunks. I'm especially pissed at myself for not bringing in enough money to our household to be able to afford the cost of replacing the stupid bathtub. I'm ashamed that I keep focusing on all the negatives of having this baby, that I can't seem to see past the inevitable sleep deprivation and stress spikes and get excited about a new squishy human to love.

All of this culminated in the worst thing of all. On Saturday night, I was running the dinner-bath-bedtime gauntlet while J.J. was at work, and I. Was. Exhausted. There was no good reason for being exhausted beyond the typical stuff - stressful week, long day, vampire fetus sucking all my strength, etc. Rowan didn't nap that afternoon, and so the evening was a series of tired tantrums for her. She didn't want what I served for dinner. She didn't want to use the potty. She didn't want to come inside from playing on the swings. She didn't want to take a bath. She didn't want to use the almost-empty bottle of bubble bath, she wanted to use the NEW bottle of bubble bath - and when I reached over to grab the almost-empty bottle instead, she jumped up and down in a fit of rage and her skull connected with my cheekbone, hard. I dropped the bottle and snapped, "Rowan! Seriously, STOP IT!" She started crying, frightened by my tone and mad that I wasn't giving in to her, and I honestly didn't care. I ran the bath and poured the bubbles (from the almost-empty bottle) in. Then she didn't want THOSE toys in the bath, and then she didn't want the bath to end, and then she didn't want the towel I handed her...

By the time I was getting her lotioned up and helping her put her pajamas on, we were both at the ends of our ropes. Rowan was wiggling and falling and turning in circles and being uncooperative, and my voice was getting louder and louder. Hers did, too: "No, I WON'T stop wiggling! I WILL wiggle!" She turned away from me, wiggled more, and pulled the one leg that we had gotten in the underwear back out of the underwear.

I finally lost it. "Rowan! STOP!" I shouted.

And I swatted her bottom.

She turned to look at me, her eyes confused and instantly full of tears. "Mommy! You're not supposed to bonk me!" she cried, her tears spilling over.

I felt like shit, wholly and immediately. I have never spanked her before, not even really come close. She collapsed in my arms, crying, and I apologized. "I'm sorry, Rowie, you're right: I'm not supposed to bonk you." I squeezed her tight. She replied, "That's okay, Mommy."

I drew back from her and looked in her wet eyes. "No, that's not okay for me to bonk you. That's not what we do when we're frustrated. I won't do that again, I promise." We hugged a minute longer, then finished lotion and pajamas and continued with the bedtime routine like normal.

But I didn't feel normal. I felt like a monster. Look, I know a swat on the bottom is not the worst thing in the world. I know there's someone reading this and judging me harshly for laying a hand on my child; trust me, I'm doing the same thing. There are also people reading this who think I'm being melodramatic, that I'm overreacting big time. They're probably not all that wrong. But I'm pregnant and hormonal and already feeling like a sub-par person and parent, and, yeah, swatting my three-year-old did nothing to help that. 

I also have to say that I know there are families out there who employ spanking as a matter of course, a regular tool in their discipline arsenal. And I know there are so many people who believe spanking is actually a necessary form of discipline, that otherwise your kid ends up a spoiled snowflake. Here's the thing, though: I am, by education and profession, an early childhood specialist. And based on thorough reviews of a variety of studies, I flat-out disagree that spanking is necessary or beneficial. A professor of mine in grad school is one of the nation's leading researchers on spanking. Last year, she published a meta-analysis on spanking that showed, as conclusively as research can, that not only does spanking not help reduce misbehavior, it also has detrimental long-term effects.

I was spanked growing up, and I wouldn't say that it did me long-term, irreparable harm. I was lucky enough to have a host of protective factors guarding against that, not the least of which was a loving and positive relationship with both of my parents. And no, I don't think one spank automatically turned Rowan into an anti-social tyrant. But still. I introduced into her innocent life the concept that grown-ups are capable of hitting children, and that makes me feel awful. She needs to know that hitting is never acceptable, and that she doesn't have to say "that's okay" just because she loves me and I love her.

I spent the rest of the weekend thinking about all the people in Rowan's life who would never dream of hitting her, or who would be angry with me for hitting a girl they adore, and feeling like a savage in comparison. I felt like I'd changed the nature of my relationship with my daughter in a real and demonstrable way. I thought about how I've never hit a child I've worked with, even the ones that hit me first - with their hands, or a sled or a block or a chair. That's all happened, but I never hit them. Of course not. I thought about how my professional life is dedicated to helping teachers and parents manage their stress and emotions, and that I let mine get the best of me. 

I did all this thinking, until, finally, I started asking myself what I would say to a parent in the same position as me. Like, what if one of the moms in my mom group came to me in tears, wracked with guilt after spanking her child? I know exactly how I'd respond. First and foremost, I'd say, "It's okay. You are still a good mom, and you didn't wreck your kid." Then I'd continue: "Yes, sometimes we lose it. Sometimes our kids are being terrible. TERRIBLE. But there are better ways to handle ourselves when we lose it than spanking. The trick is to remember that next time, and to know how you want to respond instead." And I'd counsel them through letting go of the guilt.

I'm attempting to extend the same grace to myself. And not just with regards to the spanking incident; to myself in general, the person who stays home full-time and works part-time and tries to balance a marriage and family and friendships and parenting and gestating and self-care. The guilt? This whole routine of beating myself up because I'm not living up to my own subjective standards? It is serving no good. It doesn't inspire me to change or do better; it just loops me back into the negativity spiral and keeps me stuck there. I can't take back the spank, and I feel guilty as hell about that. But I am giving myself permission to let it go. I've acknowledged that the guilt is there, and now I'm letting it go.

The point of confessing all of this is not to come off as some zen master who can pull whatever stupid shit she wants and then magically release the guilt, free of penalty or recourse. It's also not to lambast parents who do spank. But I messed up. Our family does not hit, and grown-ups in our family don't use physical force to intimidate or to impose compliance. So this is more about reminding myself that I'm going to mess up. In every area of my life, I'm going to mess up. Something I try to tell Rowan when she makes mistakes is that the mistake isn't what matters so much as how we respond to it. I'm not going to blame Rowan for me spanking her ("If you weren't wiggling around so much, I wouldn't have bonked you!"). I took responsibility for it, as well as for coming up with better ways of handling my stress and frustration. I apologized to her, sincerely, and let her know that I made a mistake. Yes, spanking her felt like the opposite of everything we try to teach in our family, but that doesn't mean it negated everything she's already learned.

And now I'm going to move on. Forgive myself. Learn from it. And let it go. Because I want to be the best person I can be, and unchecked guilt does not further that goal.

In case you need permission to do the same, here. Permission granted, grace extended, love offered. Happy Valentine's Day.

This girl ran into my arms today and whispered, "Will you be my
valentine?" Then she told me she wants to make a special
valentine for her daddy, "because he's just so special in my heart."

thanks, Obama.

I was scrolling through Facebook on my laptop this morning, and pretty much every picture was of President Obama. Rowan looked up and started asking questions. This is our conversation (I started typing it while we chatted).

Rowan: Who's that?

Me: That's President Obama.

R: Oh. Is he the good one or the bad one?

Me: [Trying not to overstate things and also trying to hold my tears back] He's the BEST one.

R: Why is he the best?

Me: Because he's the kindest and smartest president we've ever had.

R: [A pause] Not like Donald Trumpet? He's the mean one. [I didn't even know she remembered Trump's name, let alone his association with Obama.]

Me: Well, I hope that Donald Trump can change his behavior, because everybody can change their behavior. He can choose to be kind and smart.

R: Yeah! Can I make a letter? Write a letter?

Me: Yes. Do you want crayons or markers?

R: Crayons.

[I set her up next to my laptop with crayons and paper.]

Me: I was saying I hope he chooses to be kind and smart. Don't you?

R: Or bad. He can choose whatever he chooses! I bet he chooses to be bad, bad, bad. Do you think?

Me: I think he might sometimes be bad, but hopefully we can all help him choose to be kind. How do you think we can help him?

R: I thiiiink...by being kind to him like Cindy Lou Who was kind to the Grinch, so he could stop being so grouchy.

Me: [Dying inside] That sounds like a great idea. Is that what you're writing in your letter?

R: Yep! What else?

Me: Well, what else do you want to write in your letter?

R: I know what will help him! By being kind to him. To Donald Trumpet.

Me: What kinds of things can we do to be kind to him?

R: To be helpful and make lots of money.

[OH MY GOD HE'S ALREADY POISONED HER MIND HOW DID THIS HAPPEN // HALF JOKING HALF AFRAID OF AIRBORNE GREED]

Me: How will making lots of money help?

R: To feel better.

Me: I don't think just making money makes people feel better.

R: Why?

Me: Well, what are things that help YOU feel better?

R: Taking a deep breath. And also by having a hug to help you feel better.

Me: So maybe if we help him take a deep breath? And give him a hug? [EW FALSE]

R: Yes. Mm-hmm. I'm going to write those down from you [I think she meant "for you"] so I don't forget. [Continues writing her letter for awhile, then turns the paper over.] I'm drawing pink on this side. Because it's my faaaavorite color! In case we're ever scared and I can just look at this in my big girl room!

********************

When Rowan's playing with her friends, I remind her of these things: If someone is doing something you don't like, tell them to stop. If they don't stop, yell NO as loud as you can. If they still don't stop, ask for help. Let's set that example for her, for all of them. If someone is doing something you don't like, tell them to stop. Then yell it. Then ask for help. Join forces and carry on the legacy of President Obama that we claim to be so proud of, the one he charged us with advancing. As he said, "The single most powerful word in our democracy is 'we.' 'We the People.' 'We shall overcome.' Yes, we can."

Yes, we can. We care because we're good people. We're afraid because we know what's possible. But those are also the exact reasons why we'll fight: Because we're good people, and because we know what's possible. Like even the impossible - say, eight consecutive years of a Black president. I don't know what the fight will look like yet, but it starts with each of us.

Today, we grieve. Today, we fear. Today, we say good-bye.

Tomorrow we march. Tomorrow we fight.


President Obama: "I'm asking you to believe - not in my ability to create change, but in yours."

Yes, we can. Still.