January 5, 2015

The Year I Turn 40

I never stick to my resolutions. Honestly, never. Not a single one in my adult life. Despite knowing this, I eagerly create a long list of resolutions every single January—legitimately motivated and excited by the prospect of self-improvement. I'm not exactly sure why, but within weeks (days) I always convince myself it's perfectly ok to give up. It's not really my fault, I say. I was born lacking the requisite steadfastness and willpower. (Truly, I was.)

I'm not sure if this makes me pathetic, rebellious, or just plain normal. Either way, it's the same story year after year. Diets canceled, dress sizes unchanged, good deeds incomplete, bad habits continued. And up until now I haven't really cared or apologized for any of it.

But this year is different. It has to be. This is the year I turn 40—the age I've been subconsciously saving all my resolutions for—the one that really matters. In my head, this age carries so much responsibility and promise. In the most exhausting way, I will not—cannot—quit anything this year. Amazing or unsettling, failure isn't an option. And it's stressful as shit.

Part of this stress stems from one (particularly influential) childhood memory:

It was 1984. I was 9 years old and at a sleepover with a group of girls—my first real girlfriends. It was late and (after playing Truth or Dare and Light-as-a-Feather-Stiff-as-a-Board) we started talking about the future. As in, the VERY VERY FAR AWAY FUTURE. We fantasized about where we would be living, what our jobs might be, and—most importantly—who we would marry. Our idea of the future was thrilling and, although I don't recall exact details, I know the conversation was too exciting to sleep.

Our young minds found the concept of living in a new century completely unfathomable. So we sat up in our sleeping bags, doing math out loud in the dark. We calculated what year we would graduate from high school, how many years we'd date our boyfriends, and what year we would travel to Paris or New York. Then we figured out our future ages: How old would we be in 1999? 2010? And 2015?

In 2015 we would be 40. I remember our reactions like it was yesterday. 40 was completely beyond our grasp. 40 was old and EVERYTHING—all our dreams—would be accomplished by then. 2015 was the furthest we reached into the future. There was nothing more to say that night, and I'm pretty sure we fell asleep shortly after that.

So here we are. I'll be 40 in May. Which means that I'm living into—and beyond—a time that my younger self couldn't comprehend. And even though I've had 39 birthdays leading up to this one, I still feel distinctly immature, that 40 is STILL beyond me. Not because I can't imagine it, or that I haven't lived the life I dreamed of, but because I am. And that's scary to me.

My husband, my children, this home and career; they are all so real and present. And I'm responsible for all of them. Which means I need to GROW UP even more than I already have—to be that person who actually commits to things, and is—dare I say—a healthy, happy role model. Coming from a person who can't even stick to one resolution, it really is stressful as shit. But I knew it was coming, so this year I'm going to count my blessings and, for the first time ever, stick to my resolutions. Luckily the list isn't that long. :-)

September 18, 2014

In The Thick Of It

Ten months have passed since this little princess arrived. Ten LONG months. Wonderful in many aspects, but definitely long. I have to say, time does not fly when I'm postpartum. Like a wet slug, each day drags along a foggy trail of seconds, minutes and hours. Slow and exhausting. 

As any mom will attest, the months after birth can be a blur and easy to forget. One day you look at your toddler and think, Wow two year olds are so hard. Remember when she was just a little newborn, so new, so portable, so easy? Funny how that happens. Mother Nature is a big trickster, changing our memories like that. 
So let me capture a little postpartum moment in time: Edith is 3 months old. I'm in the rocking chair, blinking my eyes, staring at the clock—eyelids drooping with a heavy coat of fatigue and anxiety—and I cannot, for the life of me, figure out if it's 11pm or 11am. For several minutes I honestly do not know. I lower my gaze to watch her nurse, questioning if she is getting enough milk. I close my eyes. I open them again. It's 12:30. Desperate to pee, I attempt to break her loose, but for fear of losing a nipple I keep her on the boob. 

I proceed to the bathroom with the little one attached to my chest like a large tick. Impressed with myself after successfully wiping one-handed, I notice she has a really good latch. So I stay seated. 

Moments later (still on the toilet), I begin to fantasize about sleep in a way that nears sexual fantasy, and realize that everything—absolutely everything—would be better, if I could get some. If sleep can't happen, then I'll settle for a shower. The idea of a hot shower brings tears to my eyes. I decide to make sure I shower as soon as she's asleep. Or at the very least brush my teeth and put on clean underwear.  

Finally she's off my (very sore) nipple. I stand up and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror for the first time in days. Alas there I am—and it's worse than I thought. Much worse. Irreversible damage has been done. Who IS that woman in the mirror wearing my clothes? Too depressed to investigate, I place Edith down in her crib, and decide to use my spare time to put in a load of laundry, for which I reward myself with a bag of chips (because after all, I'm nursing and can eat whatever I want right?). 

After more chips (and chocolate), I begin to make a list of things I must do immediately to change the way I look and feel: make hair and nail appointments, hit the gym, get a sitter for date night, get dressed up and do pretty girl things like wear make-up every day. Oh yeah it's all going to happen I say out loud, perkily. I'm going to be THAT MOM. The one who totally has it all together, looking gorgeous with a perfect newborn girl and two wonderful boys in tow...

But, before I can even pick up my phone the baby wakes up. 
And I didn't even brush my teeth. 

Edith is ten months old this weekend and the fog has lifted (well, almost). It took a while this time around, but just like my other two sweeties, she is showing me how big my heart can be, and why it's all worth it. And anyways, just look at her. 

February 15, 2014

Before I Forget (39 weeks pregnant)

Written Monday, November 11, 2013:
I don't want to forget this pregnancy, in all of it's beauty and pain. It's the last time my body will grow and carry a child: a feat so crazy, miraculous, and emotional that one assumes you won't ever forget. But you kind of do. 

I remember my other pregnancies, but not completely. So I write this post today to help me remember... this exact feeling of fullness, tightness, breathlessness. And the strangely perfect combination of contentment and utter exhaustion. 

After all these weeks of braxton hicks contractions, acute hip and back pain, and annoying reflux, I'm feeling spent. Seriously. And
 I'm guilty of wanting to self-induce.  It's taking serious acceptance and patience—and a major mind adjustment... so difficult for any woman at this stage. Today, patience is impossible to achieve; I am restless, obsessive. I want to meet her now. I want to have labor today. I want to change a diaper tonight. Hold her at my chest and breathe a long sigh of relief that we made it, we're on the other side. 

But for now, I will rock on my birth ball and await things beyond my control, knowing next week could be very different. This baby girl will be born full term, healthy and ready. It's not easy, but we've come so far. And she'll be worth it. 

:: photo by the talented Leslie Kutzen

October 21, 2013

Bed Rest with Kids

{Running myself another bath. 35 weeks + 4 days.}

Bed rest seems to agree with our little girl. As of today, she has not yet made an appearance, and instead might be settling in for the long haul. I'm so relieved, after a month of stress, concern, contractions and... bed rest.

Prodromal labor started in week 31 with painful and frequent Braxton Hicks contractions that caused my cervix to dilate (only 1cm). Modified bed rest was recommended. Week 33 I lost my mucus plug, and then the cramping began, accompanied by constant 10 minute-apart contractions (which are still ongoing). To prevent further dilation, I've been told to keep my feet up until week 37, just in time for Halloween. I've never been so excited to go trick or treating with my boys!!!

So... ten more days of sitting around on the sofa, napping, taking baths, lying down, having my husband do the dishes, sweep the floors... Sounds like a dream, right? Far from it.

To the folks who said they'd love to switch places with me: let me assure you that bed rest is not what you imagine. Contrary to what the name suggests, it does not leave you feeling rested. In fact, it is both physically and emotionally exhausting. On many levels. I want to do SO much—for myself, with my children, in preparation for this baby, for my husband, my home—and I can't. I fantasize about going for a walk or a run, carrying baskets of laundry, lifting groceries, using my muscles (before they completely deteriorate). I've had a few "screw this" moments—only to find myself keeled over, breathless and contracting at the top of our third floor staircase. (Not worth it.)

Being on bed rest with kids is a challenge. Sitting around all day clearly doesn't promote great parenting, but it does actually force you to stay still, in one place. I never realized how much cleaning and running around I normally do. To be honest, I think the boys like me better this way. When they aren't at school, we have many, many hours to kill—and I've had to learn how to spend quality time with them, without putting them on bed rest too.

Some of my strategies for bed rest with kids:

  1. I keep their art supplies permanently on the dining room table, with stacks of paper, pencils, markers, scissors, and tape. Everything is ready for them to use, whenever. I'm not in there, but I can hear what they're up to. 
  2. I multi-task my pee breaks: during the short walk to the bathroom I fill a tray with snacks and drinks. If they need a snack, they come to me (instead of climbing the cabinets or scouring the fridge).
  3. I have fully embraced and accepted screen time (TV and tablet), but I try to break it up with reading them books, playing Lego, coloring. 
  4. They will sit with me and my laptop, watching nature or science videos on YouTube, Discovery or TheKidShouldSeeThis.com.
  5. We sit and do homework. 
  6. I've signed them both up for ABCMouse.com. They sit with me, either together or one at a time, for about 30-45 minutes to do the activities. 
  7. Scavenger Hunts. I write a list and they collect items. Very often I'll include items on the 3rd floor that I need, such as Tums or a blanket. 
  8. Play music. As long as I'm sitting and watching, my kids will sing, dance and perform for me. This is my favorite past time. 

I guess when you weigh the risk of having a premature baby with the complaints of a couch potato mom, it's clear that I can just suck it up for a while. And that's fine. It's only a week and a half. I totally got this.

September 19, 2013

The Best Laid Birth Plans

You know that quote about the best laid plans?* Yeah, me too. It's been sounding off in my head for several weeks now, driving me crazy. I try my best to ignore it—as I write my birth plan, speak to my doula, read my Hypnobirth book, practice breathing techniques, tour the hospital, try birth squats and attend prenatal yoga classes. 

I know. I get it. I can't actually plan a birth. (It's a big waste of time, will make me feel like a failure, blah, blah, blah.) But this is my third and final birth experience—and I'm deeply excited about it. Even when all my good sense is in tact (admittedly, a rare occurrence), I cannot stop myself from planning, preparing or talking about natural birth. Am I deluded? Yes, according to my friends, family and acquaintances. (Isn't it odd that people are so opinionated about someone else's birth choices? Not just mine, but in general. I don't get it. It's a mother's choice: their baby, their body, their family. Each birth is amazing to me, from c-section to home birth... and pregnancy and birth are so personal. But I digress.)

Reading through my (ridiculously detailed) bullet points for a serene, intervention-free, dimly-lit, natural arrival for our little girl, I am fully aware of the reality (ie, it will hurt like hell and I will want the drugs). BUT, what kind of pregnant woman would I be if I didn't try to control everything—even things that are clearly out of my control? And more importantly, what kind of mama bear would I be if I didn't at least try to plan my version of the best, safest, most amazing birth for my baby? 

Something tells me this time will be different, so I'll be sticking with my birth plan. Mostly because I've never been so prepared for anything in my life. We're talking serious "A" for effort here. We finished our Hypnobirth course two weeks ago. After fifteen hours of class and countless hours of reading and practice, Andrew and I have acquired an arsenal of skills that should take me through labor and delivery without a hitch. I know how to breathe through surges (Hypnobirth term for "contractions"), focus on positive affirmations, and allow the pleasant feeling of light touch massage to take over any negative sensations my body feels. 

I'm not going to lie. I still need a LOT of practice. 

There's obviously no way to predict how I will perform in the moment, but I feel optimistic. I've been through it twice before, and know firsthand that it truly doesn't matter how these little ones arrive to us. We just want them healthy. In fact, here's one last bullet point to the birth plan: If all plans fail, it's OK.  

*In case you have pregnancy brain like me, the real quote is: The best laid schemes of mice and men often go awry.

August 20, 2013

Not Gender Neutral

I was absolutely fine with keeping the gender a surprise. Really, I was. But then something happened to me around 22 weeks. I suddenly had a deep desire to know exactly what sort of babe was moving around in there. I felt detached and found it strange to say "the baby kicked me" and "do you want to feel the baby?" I needed a pronoun. More than that, I wanted a name. (We had a short list of lovely girl names to choose from, but absolutely no boy names. Which of course meant that we were definitely having a boy. In my head at least.)

One afternoon, while sifting through several storage containers of baby boy clothes, I started to fall in love with the little boy in my belly. The tiny clothes brought me back to those magical new baby moments with Wes and Chan. I draped a soft blue onesie over my belly and imagined this new growing boy. Perhaps he would be just like his oldest brother in demeanor, with Andrew's giant green eyes and born with a head of blonde hair and big feet? Or maybe he'd be darker, more Native American, like my dad's family?

Two hours later and I had placed all the clothes for our baby boy away in the dresser, waiting for his November arrival. I was convinced we were having a boy and proceeded to brainstorm boy names. Of course, we didn't actually know it was a boy; I was just a crazy pregnant lady reminiscing about my previous children. But to say something specific about the baby—his feet, his hands, his head—made me settled for a little while.

After nearly a week of boy-fantasizing (still unable to come up with a name), I surrendered and called the lab for the gender results from our 18 week ultrasound. Two minutes later I hung up feeling weak-willed and embarrassed after being told they didn't obtain or save the gender in their records... since we specified that we didn't want to know the sex. Silly me. Of course they wouldn't save that information; it's not vital for the doctor to know. And therefore it shouldn't be for us either. It's either a boy or a girl, not that complicated. I was disappointed with myself for caving in and gladly re-convinced myself that nature will give us the most wonderful surprise and I was so lucky.

I was feeling content once again with my gender neutral pregnancy. Until the OB informed me of the routine second ultrasound for women over 35. And that was it: the crazy pregnant lady with no willpower was back—and wanted to know for certain... to decorate, to shop, to nest.

Wesley came to the ultrasound with me, and we both confidently announced we thought it was a boy—before watching with awe at the 3D image of this beautiful baby... big cheeks, sweet nose, dainty hands. We were in love. To quote the lab technician, "It's not a boy!" And SHE most definitely is not.

Oh my gosh, it's a girl. A girl!!!

Vintage Camera Onesie :: Hen&Co

August 5, 2013

House Rules: Part 2, The Bunk Bed

The boys have bunk beds! After sleeping separately since birth (aside from a failed two-week trial), it was time to get these two in one room. For over a year, they have waited patiently, knowing their beds would eventually convert to bunks (we wanted to wait until Wesley turned 5). With some apprehension—and a lot of family discussions—we decided to just do it. It made sense for them to adjust to this setup now, rather than when there's a newborn in our midst.

We wrote the Bunk Bed Rules (see below) before their first night sleeping together. It was impressive and reassuring to hear how many rules the boys came up with. Apparently they were a little nervous about the arrangement too, and the rules helped them feel more at ease. I designed a poster and taped it in clear view from both the top and bottom bunk. Since Chandler cannot read, we say the rules aloud together every night before bed. If they stick to the rules for a week they get a prize. Two nights down and so far only one rule has been broken (the last rule - Chan is SO noisy when he wakes up).

Sharing a room has had a visible effect on them already: they are in really good spirits, have a better sense of each other's space and are so excited for bedtime! Seeing this from a mother's perspective just melts my heart and makes me remember how comforted and happy I was sharing a room with my younger sister. For most of my childhood we would talk, giggle and joke until falling asleep. She and I have always been at ease with each other and have a special bond today—sometimes we joke that we have the same brain. I wonder how much of that is due to sharing a room?

I'd love to hear other room sharing and bunk bed stories... What ages did you do it? Did you have rules? Have your children continued to like their bunk beds as they get older? How old is too old for a bunk?

If you'd like a printable version of this Bunk Bed Rules Poster for your kiddos, just let me know.