Share The Mama

You would have expected Lily to be jealous after the birth of her new baby sister. You would have been wrong.

I credit myself largely to starting off their sisterly relationship on the right foot. One ice cream sundae play dough play set, which one certain three-year old had been eyeing, was gifted "from" Vivienne about a week after she arrived. "How did she know I wanted it?"an excited but confused Lily wanted to know. "She's your sister. That's how," was the simple answer she received.

Lily has amazed us with her incredible patience and understanding, willingness to help and genuine love for her baby sister. Her continual commentary always prompts a smile: "Mama, don't forget my sister!" and "Mama, she's crying again. (sigh and eye roll)." and "Mama, she doesn't like those cheese puffs. Can I have them?" Instead of being jealous or whiny or obnoxious, she would simply wait to receive attention.

What has perplexed me the most is that lately, the jealousy has been coming from the other side. Now that Vivienne is almost 11 months old and able to maneuver through obstacles and get to where - and what - she wants to, I have a small, constant companion at my feet. Being only 18 pounds and having a shriek that can pierce your inner eardrum, she is often hoisted onto my hip and carried about. If I am interacting in any way with Lily, Vivienne zips right over and unleashes the demon within if I take no notice right away.

Tonight, dinner and play and bed time were all on me, as Jake was at work. I was lying on the floor of the living room, giggling and cuddling and engaging in general silliness with Lily, when Vivienne decided she had had it up to here with all of the attention being paid to her sister. Throwing herself on top of me, grabbing with an iron grip, she wept and screamed so incredibly that I thought she might start choking or possibly throw up. She also batted at Lily with her angry little fist and tried to rip shreds of hair out of Lily's head. "Gentle!"I told her, maneuvering her hand to softly pat Lily,"Sisters are nice!"

And Lily, true to form, just shrugged the whole incident off as we were walking up the stairs to start bedtime. I later heard her telling her sister, "Yes, Vivi, it's hard to share. But we have to share the Mama."

Cow: Parts 3 & 4

Stay tuned for:

Cow, Part 3: To Wean or Not to Wean

Cow, Part 4: A Love/Hate Relationship with the Breast Pump

Cow, Part 2: The Purpose of Boobs

I find it somewhat amusing when people are grossed out by breastfeeding. Sorry to break it to you, folks, but breasts do not exist solely for you to ogle at and play with. I triumphantly nursed both of my babies in public, every time hoping just a little that someone would sneer a rude comment my direction so I could reply, “I don't get offended when you eat.” Depending on the commentator, I might find it appropriate to also squirt them across the room with my milk. Sadly, I was never able to whip this comment, or my boob, out at someone.

But in all seriousness, how amazing is it that our bodies are capable of producing this nutritious and perfectly balanced substance that sustains another human life? When I was pregnant the first time, there was no question that I would breastfeed. Months leading up to Lily's birth, I had visions of picturesque nursing scenes: a soft, Thomas Kinkade-esqe light glowing around us, angels voices softly piercing the air, my white, billowy nightgown flowing softly in the breeze. Suffice to say, that dream scene was thrown out the window after Lily arrived and I found breastfeeding to be a miserable and challenging experience. How could something “natural” be so difficult? I will never, ever forget the first thing the lactation consultant said to my tear streaked face when Lily was almost a week old and not gaining weight yet: “This is the first time you've ever tried to breastfeed someone, and this is the first time your baby has ever breastfed. You can't expect to get something perfect the first time you've ever tried it!”

Lily did eventually catch on and ended up nursing for over two years. Being the new, neurotic parent I was, pushing her to take a bottle was something we tried only a handful of times. And lo and behold, at three months she absolutely refused any kind of nipple that wasn't mine. Even worse, she was convinced at six months that “real” food was poisonous and I continued to be her sole source of nutrition for many, many months. Her demands were exhausting, but the emotional rewards from breastfeeding outweighed the negatives and I was grateful for the opportunity to connect with my baby in this way.

Needless to say, after the birth of Vivienne three years later, I was determined to introduce the bottle. I simply could not fathom the thought of having another baby who wouldn't take a bottle - not only for logistical reasons, but for my own sake of sanity as well (Nighttime feedings? Any takers?). I wanted the best of both worlds – being able to nurse my baby when we were together and not have to worry about her eating habits when we were apart. It turns out that any worries I had about experiencing a repeat of her sister's eating habits were a waste of time. Vivienne latched on moments after she was born and is a vivacious eater of anything in front of her to this day (cheerios, broccoli, cheese = good. Dust mites, tiny Polly Pocket shoes, coffee beans that fall on the floor = bad).

The purpose of boobs becomes evident after you become a parent. Of course, this purpose will not be the only purpose for the entirety of a lifetime (insert my husband's cheer here). But for now, for these short months and possibly years, I wear this aspect of motherhood like a badge of honor.

Cow, Part 1: Breast is Best, Yo

Before I was even pregnant, I was quite snotty about formula. Even if I never actually voiced this opinion to my friends who had recently become mothers, I really looked down on anyone who would chose that gross and unnatural substance over breast milk. Seriously, have you read the studies on this? The status of “liquid gold” wasn't assigned to formula for a reason. (Le Leche League's website is a great place to start if you are looking for more information about the benefits of breastfeeding). I could not comprehend the decision to use formula; think of the cost! The nutrition! The damage you were doing to your baby, both nutritionally and psychologically!

At this point, I would like to launch forward four years. After actually being a mom and not just prancing to the top of my soap box of inexperience, I have officially been kicked off my high and mighty sassy horse. My “before kids” self really didn't know what she was talking about. How could she? She wasn't a mom. If you keep reading, you'll see that even I eventually used formula and found that it is not toxic (“What?!? Sell-out!” my former self screams.) I now understand that every mom, every baby and every situation is different, but maintain the belief that breast milk is best, yo!

These Shoes Rule! These Shoes Suck!

I love shoes. Pumps, strappy sandals, sky-high stilettos, funky boots, cute flats – I love them all, and pride myself on my vast shoe collection. Before I had kids, one of my favorite parts of the day was getting dressed in the morning. Standing in my closet, gazing up at the rows and rows of boxes, I had only one question: Which pair should I wear today? “Me! Me” the three inch, pointy toe, solid red with snakeskin accent heels would call, “Remember you have that meeting at work today! I'll be fabulous!” I imagined the other shoes smiling regretfully at the pair that was selected, like a famous actress nominated for the Oscar and loses but still must appear debonair with all of the cameras pointed at her. Don't worry, I would assure the others, you'll have your day too.

Only one pair of shoes ever challenged my identity and took my fashion sense by the shoulders and shook it to death; the ugly “Earth” shoes I purchased during my first pregnancy to ease my aching back. I knew that my sense of style couldn't possibly be maintained while wearing these shoes, but the comfort and support of my new Mary-Janes (black, of course, as I still have some ounce of pride) quickly trumped any other pair in my closet. “What have you traded us for? Simply awful!” the heels and boots protested.

After Lily was born, there was no vital necessity to wear any of my fabulous yet ridiculous heels. Why dress up when your entire day consists of nursing/rocking/changing an infant and there is no need to step foot outside the house? No longer having the time or energy in the morning to put a cute outfit together, I took the easy way out. I continued to pick those Mary-Janes long after the necessity of wearing them had passed. Like many changes and sacrifices I had made, not having time to spend on myself became an everyday occurrence. My pumps and sandals were an inconsequential part of the person I had been long ago; a person who, it seemed at times, would be lost in the world of motherhood forever.

Eventually, I learned how to gain more of a balance in my life, and felt as though I was getting to know myself again. I was, of course, the same person I'd always been, but with changes and tweaks and new experiences under my belt. Around Lily's first birthday, I timidly reintroduced myself to my neglected heels. “We're dusty! Where have you been?” they groaned. “I'm sorry. I had a baby, and you are no good for going on long walks with a jogging stroller or running errands,” I tried to explain.

I logically understand that your choice of footwear does not directly relate to the type of person you are, and that placing so much emphasis on what you wear seems silly and materialistic. But at the end of the day (or the beginning of the day, in my case), the single element of shoes makes me feel like myself; not necessarily who I was before I had kids or this new person I've become, but me. A woman who relishes in slipping into a pair of hot pink suede platform pumps, turquoise snakeskin boots or brown peep toes with gold piping, but also a mom who is utterly and completely obsessed with her daughters. Motherhood has been fully integrated into my identity, which will always include fabulous shoes.

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I first watched this video before I was even pregnant, and found its hilarity and ridiculousness completely entertaining. While the video is about shoes, it really has nothing to do with motherhood, but when I was writing this entry, the catch-phrase popped into my mind and I knew that it had to be my title. Found it most appropriate to attach the link!

Hello, My Name is Anya and I am a Control Freak.

Motherhood has reformed me. I used to be your typical Type A, controlling, neurotic nightmare. I've never actually said “my way or the highway” to anyone, but that phrase pretty much sums it up. What makes matters worse, of course, is that my well thought out plans usually come to fruition, therefore reinforcing this exact behavior and way of thinking. My first pregnancy was planned, like everything else in my life. Actually, the planning really started much earlier than you would ever guess - you'll find the names of my future children on the pages of my first journal, started when I was seven or eight years old. My daughters really should thank me that they didn't end up as “Flower Petal” or “Spice.”

Blessed with the fertile myrtle gene, project baby was launched shortly after we returned from our honeymoon, right on schedule. Like everything else I take on, I became completely and utterly obsessed with my new project. Spreadsheets were created to compare the different options for strollers and cribs; lists outlined how many 0-3 month versus 3-6 month onsies to stock. I read books, watched birth videos, practiced breathing techniques, attended pre-natal yoga classes, talked with other pregnant women. Determined to be “supermom,” I gathered every ounce and scrap of information I could in those short nine months.

What those books and videos never tell you, however, is that nothing – I repeat, nothing - can prepare you for parenthood. And what people especially don't tell you is that, for a control freak like myself, becoming a mother is like pulling the rug out from under every aspect of your life in one swift motion.

Motherhood overwhelmed me. Daily hysterical crying fits, erratic thoughts and distracted conversations defined me after my daughter was born. My identity was shattered – is this what it meant to be a mom? Should I feel guilty for not doing the dishes and folding the laundry if I am at home and my husband is at work? How could I feel so incredibly lucky and horrifically tired at the same time? I would look down at the sleeping baby in my arms and weep out of joy for being so blessed. And in the lonely hours of endless night/morning, I would weep out of misery from the hell of my own making. Because, after all, I had planned this.

Time passed, night by sleepless night, and I slowly started to feel the haze lift; and with it, some of my weird idiosyncrasies. Suddenly, it didn't matter if I was 5 minutes late for something; if I left the house in a mismatched outfit; if my husband put the kitchen towels in the bathroom cabinet and vice versa. Believe it when I say that this was a big step from the “old me.”

In thinking of all the ways motherhood could change me, I never would have guessed that this process would have made me a better person. Motherhood has given my life purpose, shown me the true meaning of unconditional love and added much needed perspective. Becoming a more grounded, patient, understanding and less controlling individual are really just bonuses.

An Ode to Those Who Have Never Been There (by my husband)

Roses are red

Violets are blue

You don't have kids

So f*** you.

An Ode to Those Who Have Never Been There

Awake at 11 / 1 / 3 / 5 / 8

Foggy brain / Zombie state / Forcing eyes to stay wide open

Hard to follow conversations / What was I saying? / No she is not / sleeping yet

Everything / Everyday / overwhelming / stressful / so hard / too hard / Sacrifice

Loss of sleep / body / identity / time / sex / life

Is it worth it?

Heart exploding / Fireworks / Indescribable, Unexplainable, Inexplicable

Never love anyone anywhere anytime anyplace anything

like you love this baby

Play While You Still Can

I regretfully admit that sometimes my days off seem endless. Board games that turn into "bored" games after being played 28 times in a row, never-ending pleads for fruit snacks, requests to play with messy Moon Sand. The question becomes: how quickly can Mama go out of her mind?

Friends and relatives with older children have wistfully sighed "the early years go by so fast..." and while I believe them, I still have trouble fully living in present. (How can I not when I am convinced that Vivienne will sleep longer and better as she gets older, just like Lily did? Really, can you blame me at this point?) I have heard people lament about their lost time and think that I have already learned the "time goes so quickly" lesson.

Apparently, this afternoon was a much-needed refresher course.

Lily had a meltdown after a four-hour play-date with the neighbor girls (our yard, their yard, their house, our house). Everyone was starving and I sent the girls home when I started getting dinner ready. Lily was incredibly sad and would have really rather starved than stopped playing, and became a crabby, furious and crying disaster. And then it hit me.

This almost four year old will wake up one day and always chose to play with her friends over me. I need to stop whining about being so tired and not having time to clean/read/watch a movie/update photo albums/etc.

Living everyday for that day itself is important, because, truth be told, it does go quickly. Why is it so hard for me to do this? And why do I have to be reminded?

I vowed to change my mindset. Tonight's play consisted of puppies and the pound and a dog catcher and a veterinarian who fixed everyone's cuts and scrapes. And when it was time to start bedtime, I felt fulfilled in a way that no other task could ever compete with.

Lesson learned. Again. (Thank god there is still t

The Joy of NOT Doing it Yourself

My revelation began when Lily was one & half or two years old. I had been doing things for her ever since she was born and it seemed unnatural to stop doing things for her even though she was fully capable of performing simple tasks.

One lazy Saturday, we were getting ready to walk to the park. The stroller was packed to the nines and everything was ready...except for Lily, who had been replaced with a screeching banshee, wriggling away as I tried to strap on her sneakers. “Park!” the banshee shrieked. “Yes, I'm trying to get us ready to go to the park! We need to put your shoes on!” I exclaimed, quickly becoming annoyed. As I listened to her screams, a light bulb went off. Why was I struggling with a two year old? I didn't really care whether we went to the park or not. The thought of sitting on the couch reading a magazine while she played with her toys was just as fun for me and half the effort! So I stopped. The shrieking stopped too, as she peered up at me with a look of curiosity. “Park?” she whispered. “When you put your shoes on, then we can go to the park,” I calmly responded. I sat down and patiently waited to see what she would do. Much to my amazement, she picked up her shoes, put them on herself and proudly announced, “Shoes! Park!” From that moment on, I vowed not to do anything for my daughter she could do herself.

Now that Lily is almost four, this small and simple rule has extended to every part of our day. She clears her own dishes after a meal, carries her backpack to our car on the way to preschool, opens the fridge and finds a juice box. Sometimes I find myself falling back into the old patterns of doing it myself and have to remind myself to step back. If she needs help, she always asks me. I truly believe that letting our kids try things and experiment and get messy and make mistakes and “do it themselves” creates confidence and instills self-sufficiency. After allowing her the freedom to do so, it has amazed me what she is capable of - and she is not even four yet! Imagine the chores I can make her do in the coming years...

*another version of this entry can be viewed at mamalode.com

Let Your Voice Be Heard

My life is filled with singing. I was gifted with a natural ability to pick and up and carry a tune, but I consider myself to be in the “karaoke” category of singers rather than the “American Idol Top 10” category. But really, that is besides the point. My musical upbringing probably has something to do with my love for singing, and it certainly helps to be married to the lead singer of a band and have a father-in-law who is a voice teacher.

During the last four years of being a mom, I have found an interesting use for singing beyond it being absolutely fun. The sound of my voice is calming during obvious times (nap and bedtime), but I have found that singing actually helps with day to day necessities and teaching skills as well. Who would have thought that a made up song would assist in the bedtime of a crabby two year old or provide the necessary distraction to avoid a meltdown?

If you hung out with me for a day, you’d most likely hear lovely musical renditions of “clean up your toys, clean up your toys, all of the dollies and horses too” and “brushing your teeth, brushing off the carrots, and the cheese stick, and the peanut butter sandwich” and “I share with you, you share with me, it is so nice to share!”

If I had more than five minutes to sit down during the average day, I'd probably have a YouTube link here with a video of me singing. Something to aspire to...

*a version of this entry can be viewed at mamalode.com