Mommy Wars - I Surrender!

My baby will be two months old this week.  I feel like I've lived a whole lifetime in just these past eight weeks.  Late nights have been rough, of course, even with my husband helping to support me.  Diaper blowouts, crying jags, traumatic bathtimes - many of the challenges of parenthood have already reared their ugly heads.  I've got a good support team, though, so we're all getting by.

They say, however, that no two mommies are the same; nor are two babies.  Which means that everything - from how baby wants to be held to which brand of diaper works best, is up for debate.  The problem is, this mommy is also a perfectionist, which means that things must be done one of two ways: flawlessly or not at all.

That's not a good thing.  Especially when pretty much the next 18+ years of my life will be almost entirely trial and error.  *Cue panic attack.*

Although I'm not sharing every tiny little scrap of information about my baby with the world, I think it's important to at least chronicle some of my struggles.  After all, my readers have journeyed through miscarriage with me; now that my husband and I have our long-awaited child, we have a new set of challenges, and it's only fair that we're honest about those, too.  

Ronen spent nine days in the NICU, and although he received excellent care during that time, it severely limited my ability to bond with him, particularly in the area of breastfeeding.  That has been very difficult for me, and I've been quite hard on myself each time Ross or I mixed up a bottle of formula to supplement our little guy.  I wanted so badly to be able to breastfeed exclusively, but that just hasn't happened.  Poor latch,  ongoing pain, exhaustion on my part, or just plain discouragement has led us to turn to the (baby) bottle on occasion.  I've already run the gamut of ideas to make things more successful or easier, but most have failed for us, leaving me again condemning myself as a mother when I mumbled "yes, please", to my husband's offer of bottle-feeding the baby as I rolled back over for twenty more minutes of precious sleep when I should have been pumping, or feeding him myself.  

I've hated myself for losing patience with the baby when I couldn't understand his needs.  He was fed, changed, clean, warm, and swaddled.  Why was he still crying and WHEN WOULD HE STOP?!

Ross was concerned that I had post-partum depression.  I think the hormonal swings scared him, and rightly so - they scared me, too.  However, when I was honest with myself and did a little research, I found that the majority of the symptoms didn't match up with what I was feeling.  In fact, the greatest amount of my frustration was coming from one source alone: breastfeeding.

Or rather, my apparent failure at it.  

I realized that the times I struggled with the most anger, depression and anxiety were feeding times.  This might be linked with the baby's time in the NICU, where feedings were closely monitored and any time in which the baby consumed less than expected or took longer than expected was considered a failure.  Or, it could be a side effect of the self-imposed burden of perfectionism, since nursing has not been a happy, beautiful and successful experience from day one.  Probably a bit of both.

Still, once I isolated that part of motherhood, things got a little clearer.  I pinpointed the specifics of why breastfeeding was making me anxious, and realized that, while some are fixable, some really are not.  My son's high palate is something he has to grow into, and is causing latching problems which leave me in pain.  So I began to dislike nursing my son.

Dreading breastfeeding made me feel like a terrible mother, so the cycle continued.  I'd get upset about breastfeeding and it would frequently result in a self-fulfilling prophecy.  The baby would finally latch, but I'd be stuck in an awkward or painful position for forty-five minutes.  Or he would thrash about so violently that I'd have to literally pin his arms down to try to get him to eat.  And, yes, the little dude picked up on my emotions, and reacted accordingly.

So guess what?  He gets formula and pumped milk.  

I've read lots of comments in nursing forums online, and frankly, it's enough to make any mother feel that she is valueless if she cannot or will not provide a baby nourishment at her breast.  My girl Jaime, whom I frequently mention, was unable to nurse her twins and didn't learn until her fourth daughter was born that she actually had a glandular problem that prevented her from providing for her girls!  For four years she dealt with intermittent disappointment and shame because she wasn't a proud breast-feeding mama...and even now, after receiving the knowledge that there was nothing in her power she could have done, she sometimes has twinges of guilt.  Yes, breast milk has the upper hand on formula; mommies make it for each specific baby.  But, in my case, it was being provided with a heavy dose of stress, anxiety, anger, resentment, and dread.  That's not a cocktail I'd want to give any baby.

I frequently see it quoted that any woman can breastfeed if she tries hard enough, because it is "natural".  But that makes no sense at all!  It's "natural" to conceive children, yet thousands of couples each year find themselves truly unable to have babies, no matter how hard they try.  Some can be helped with medical intervention, some cannot. I believe breastfeeding is the same way.  I'm sure that the majority of women who have challenges can overcome them, but some cannot.  I'm not saying I cannot overcome my own challenges, but I'm slowly accepting that my son has had lots of my own milk these past several weeks - which is a great thing!  He gets lots of love and snuggles from anyone who feeds him.  The bottle has allowed my family to feed the baby, which has been spiritually fulfilling - after all, these people have prayed for us through each miscarriage and have been waiting to welcome this tiny one into our lives as anxiously as we have.  Why shouldn't I share him?  Plus, yes...it is immeasurably beneficial for my husband and I to share night-feeding duties.  Although I still take the lion's share (he works full time and I do not, so I try to let him sleep more at night and he lets me sleep in and nap on weekends and when he comes home), I definitely tag-team him sometimes.  "Your turn," I mumble as I roll over and steal another half-hour of sweet sleep.

I've had a few crisis moments over the past few days.  Moments when I am questioning my own decision to feed my baby both breast milk and formula.  Wondering if I'm denying him for my own comfort.  If Mommy being happy really does impact baby's happiness.  

But then I look at my sweet-faced sleeping son, happily snoozing with a belly full of milk, and I realize: even as a preemie, he is easily meeting his developmental milestones as though he were full-term.  He rolled over twice at 4 weeks (and lest that be a fluke, he did it again last week).  He is starting to smile and express pleasure.  He grabs at the bottle on his own.  He hold his head up for several seconds at a time.  He recognizes voices.  He has gained almost 3 pounds since birth.  He is beginning to sleep longer and longer stretches at night.  

He.  Is.  Happy.

And you know what else?

Mommy and Daddy are, too. 

If he scores two or three points lower on an IQ test because he consumed formula along with breast milk during his infancy, that's ok.  I will love him anyway, because he is my son.

The Cat is Out of the Bag...

...and I'm not talking about that time Thor and Loki had it out over an empty sack of Meow Mix, either.

I mean to say that, after months of genuine indecisiveness, I finally turned in my resignation at work.  I'm officially a stay-at-home-mom.

I feel relieved to have finally made my choice, but I'm surprised that relief is pretty much all I feel.  I thought I'd feel elated and overjoyed and a big rush of warm fuzzies as I hugged and kissed my baby.  I thought I'd feel proud, having made the decision that my husband and I agreed was best for my family.

Instead, I sort of feel a little bit...empty.  Like I cut the cord in a huge area of my life and I'm in kind of a freefall right now.  And challenged, like I'm standing at the base of a wild, snowy mountain and I've committed myself to climbing it but I really haven't packed enough supplies and I've never climbed a mountain before and in fact, I didn't even watch any mountain-climbing videos on YouTube or anything.

After just a few weeks of staying home with the baby (several of those days with family or friends visiting), I can see that raising children is not a job for lightweights.  When Ross got home from work yesterday, I was exhausted.  Nope, I hadn't finished three loads of laundry, gone grocery shopping, and groomed the cats.  I had fed and changed the baby and thought about what I would made for dinner (eggs, fried taters and turkey bacon).  And that was enough.

I can see how motherhood, which is supposed to be about family and community, can be isolating instead.  I can see how a mom, even a mom who is a good person and full of lots of love, can get frustrated and resentful towards a new baby.  Suddenly, your freedom disappears overnight; you're often expected to make decisions about returning to work long before you're physically or emotionally ready; friends and family and total strangers and the creepy staring lady at Giant Eagle all want to see your baby NOW and get upset because they weren't the first on your list to be invited over;  your timetable now revolves around feeding a little guy who, in our case, is still figuring out how to eat, which frequently makes mealtimes stressful and unpredictable (the bonding quotient there is pretty much zero); you begin to dread evenings because you're either afraid you'll miss a feeding if the baby monitor doesn't pick up his cries, or you'll stay up all night because his "self-soothing" pug-like grunts just. Don't. Stop.

I thought it would be easy to quit my job.  Maybe it would have been, if I despised my job or even felt indifferent towards it.  But I actually liked it.  I liked my co-workers.  I liked what I did and I felt like I did it well.  It was also hard to beat a 6-minute commute (which passed by a Starbucks).  Plus, the information I gathered from working in a pediatric office has been invaluable during my pregnancy and now, with a preemie in the house.  I had an amazing, engaged, compassionate supervisor and I had a good time working with some really fun, lively girls - going from that to being home with three suspicious cats, an often unreadable baby, Klondike bars and Netflix is a huge change.

We haven't been to church in a while because, well, yeah, we have a newborn and we've been advised to keep him out of crowds for a while.  Although we've got offers to visit and help from some of the church gals, it's not the same as being in the Word and enjoying fellowship with our spiritual family.  I thought I'd automatically feel closer to God after my son's birth, because, after all, I recognize God as the Heavenly Father, and now I was a parent, too, but that didn't happen, either.

I guess it comes down to expectations.  The same unrealistic expectations that drive wedges between spouses in the first few years of marriage can overwhelm new parents.  I didn't exactly expect the kind of rosy-cheeked, wide-eyed newborn so frequently depicted in movies and on television...nor did I expect to snap back into my pre-pregnancy body in a few weeks...and I certainly didn't expect to get a full night's sleep any time soon after his birth. But maybe my problem was that I really couldn't prepare myself for a new baby - especially the way he ended up coming into the world.

So, that's what I'm going to focus on these next few weeks - making realistic expectations for myself and my baby.  Just getting by, one day at a time.  

The anxiety of making The Big Decision is over.  I have no obligations to anyone but my God and my family.  It's okay for me to breathe.  And fail, sometimes.  And try again.  And ask for help.  And not take everyone's advice, if I don't want to.

Because really...the 17-year-old cashier at McDonald's might not be the most reputable source of infant knowledge, knowwhatImsayin'?

I Didn't Have Any Coffee This Morning.

And I can soooooooo feel it.

This parenting thing is strange.  I can go a few hours at a time without a single obligation - that is, if the baby's sleeping - and then suddenly, my dinner has to get cold while I need to figure out why the tiny human in my house seems angry.  And LOUD.  Sleep is now a precious commodity - literally worth haggling over with my husband, if need be.  (Fortunately, haggling is infrequent, as I have a great hubby who tries his best to take care of both me and the baby.)

I was disappointed to learn how frequently I have been second-guessing myself since the baby came home from the NICU.  I can literally not turn around without getting advice (sometimes solicited, frequently not) from folks on social media.  All of the books I have read contradict each other.  The NICU doc and my pediatrician gave me advice from two different ends of the spectrum.  So basically, this is what I have learned about parenting:

Never wake the baby for feeds, except if he has slept too long, which means anywhere from three to five hours, depending on what is normal for your baby.  Let the baby sleep as long as he wants, because he or she will cry to let you know he's hungry. Since crying is a late sign of hunger, you're a negligent parent if your child has to cry to let you know he's hungry.  Never use a pacifier unless the child was given one in the hospital, in which case your should abandon all hope of even trying to breastfeed your baby.  Co-sleeping is the best way to go because it fosters closeness between yourself and the baby and allows your husband to bond with the baby too, except you're nuts and crunchy and a total wack-job if you let that baby into your bed because he will have all sorts of psychological issues later.  You should be ashamed of yourself if your child sleeps through a feeding, because you are going to hell for child abuse.  Plus, your milk supply will dry up and you will be like the Sahara Desert.    If you use a nipple shield, you're cursing your child to a life of malnourishment, because that will mess with your supply, too.  Use a nipple shield if your baby was introduced to the bottle first, as in cases of baby or maternal illness.  Oh, wait, your baby was introduced to the bottle before the breast?  You must have had a horrible birth plan.  Or your doctors didn't adhere to your birth plan because you were not assertive enough in expressing your desires.  So you are obviously raising a child with self-esteem issues.  Good luck when adolescence hits!  Why didn't you have a home birth?  You're a terrible person.  You should never have had a child at all.

Whew.  Glad I have everything figured out now and can go about my merry way, being the best mom in the history of ever.

Truth is, there's so much advice out there on so many topics that you need to take nearly everything with a grain of salt nowadays.  Every time I log onto facebook, there is a different article posted from one of my more passionate friends.  One day it's on the dangers of GMO products, and the next, it's an elaborate post about the "correct" way to drink water (apparently I've done it wrong for 32 years, which obviously explains why I have utterly failed at life so far).  There are articles touting the dangers of poisonous and deadly artificial sweeteners, articles advocating breastfeeding until the kid's practically in college, articles shaming me for eating anything other than organic, locally sourced kale and squash, articles warning me that my children will die if I use any type of cleanser other than white vinegar and baking soda...

...as well as articles refuting nearly every one of the above assertions.

It's terribly difficult to know who and want to trust.  Even when it comes to family - whom generally I do trust - there are such dramatic differences between life now and when my husband and I were first born, it's almost like we are all learning everything together, for the first time!  

I'm still working the learning curve.  Some days are good and some are not good at all.  Today, for example, is a not good day.  Baby has slept much of the day, which I usually despise, as it's generally an indication he will be up and fussy all night.  However, he hasn't eaten much today and he's spit up several times, which is unusual for him.  He seems like he's having tummy trouble, so I'm thinking it's best for him to rest today.  One day of poor eating won't kill him - even the little guy that he is.  I'm hoping that we'll wake with a clean slate tomorrow - and if not, then the docs get a call from me.  

The initial few weeks were hellish.  I'm the kind of gal who really, really values her eight full hours of sleep (that, paired with my introversion, means that I rarely go out once I'm home from work during the week; yes, I'm pretty hard-core lame).  Having that stolen from me was something I almost took personally.  Breastfeeding has been an exhausting and frustrating challenge in many ways.  (This is not a mommy blog so I choose not to get into details about that; suffice it to say that it is not the beautiful bonding experience I had hoped it would be.)  Trying to bond with a baby who doesn't much like to cuddle isn't very encouraging, either.  Venturing out of the house with a premature child has been scary and intimidating, too.  We're keeping our outings as short as possible now, to keep stress out of the equation if we can.  Plus, we're working with baby to reprogram his thinking - that is to say, to rework his days and nights, since he'd sleep for five or six hours easily during the day if I let him, but then he'll wail inconsolably for the same amount of time once nightfall hits.

I feel guilty right now.  I'm sure there are some hormones coming into play right now, but my own personal challenge is that I'm expecting myself to experience the glowing joy of motherhood so often portrayed in movies and magazines, without going through the ugly trenches of living on two showers per week, blurry-eyed 3 AM feedings, irrational fights with hubby, seemingly endless crying jags (for me and for baby), and buckets of self-pity over my wardrobe not fitting me yet.

The guilt, I think, is coming from the knowledge that I've overcome three miscarriages for this moment, and I expected to be full of radiance, practically oozing maternal instinct, to suddenly and miraculously have a closer and more intimate relationship with God, but instead, I'm still sorting out my feelings.  I thought I was going to literally glow.  Instead, I want to lose 35 pounds.  I have no desire to cook, which I used to love.  I get frustrated with the baby, and with myself, and sometimes I say things I don't mean.  I worry I'm not a good mom.  I run to WebMD to research my son's birthmark instead of listening to the doctors, who told me there's nothing to be concerned about.  I don't know what to do about returning to work.  Well, I kind of do, but I'm not sure.  

I guess all of that is pretty much 100% normal, and maybe that is the craziest part.  This is my new normal, and I have no choice but to get used to it!   

Wow.

(Props to Megan B., Deana T., Alayna R. and Jaime H. for helping me get through the first really, really difficult weeks with their great advice and much-needed laughter!)