Mom Badge

A blog about earning your mom stripes, one blow out diaper at a time.

Month: August 2014

Identity lost and found

August 28, 2014 / / 2 Comments
E and me.

E and me.

It took me a long time to get comfortable with who I was as a person. Anyone who met me before the age of 26 knows that I was painfully shy. The kind of shy where people wonder if you know how to speak at all. I refused to use the phone, go to parties, or even enter a room unaccompanied by someone in my inner circle. But eventually, I opened up. I learned who I was and what I was about, and I even grew to like it. Now try to imagine what happens to someone when their identity that took 26 years to get comfy with all of a sudden disappears.

Because that’s motherhood.

For at least the first month of E’s life, I felt like my soul had been crushed. My identity, something that I had such a fragile relationship with anyway, had been lost. Instead of my job, hobbies, and relationship with my husband, my life became about three things — food, sleep and comfort for a tiny human.

I was so confused. I wanted this, right? Every month that pregnancy test came back negative I cried and cried. But now that he was here, I cried for a different reason. I didn’t know who I was anymore. I was stuck in some kind of identity limbo between the person I was and the person I now had to become. I remember preparing myself for how physically difficult motherhood would be. The baby holding, pacing, rocking, etc. But nothing could have prepared me for how emotionally difficult it is. All of that time spent in school and then working to get that job that meant something more than a paycheck — none of it gave me the tools I needed for this gig. It’s the profession that’s 24/7 and takes every part of you to do. All of a sudden, everything isn’t about you anymore. Your grades, where you went to college, how much you make, your job title, your Pinterest wedding — none of it makes a bit of difference.

Thank goodness.

I can’t think about me all the time. And that’s kind of a relief. I mean, sure, sometimes all I want to do is finish that other half of my sandwich. Or go to the bathroom when I want. Or do any task or chore in a way that feels like it’s been done completely and hasn’t been rushed. But those things will have to wait. Because my baby needs me.

While it’s still uphill sometimes, I think I’m starting to learn who the new me is. And I’ve been reminded that life isn’t about creating the perfect you. It’s about change and challenges, and how you respond to both. I may have lost my identity, but I’m starting to build a new one, and that’s a good thing. It’s how life works.

Things I’ve dribbled on my baby

August 26, 2014 / / 2 Comments
Hay, girl.

Hay, girl.

Babies need to be held a lot. That means you learn to do stuff with one hand. When you do stuff with one hand while holding a baby, stuff ends up on your baby. Here’s a list of the more entertaining things I’ve dribbled and dropped on my child thus far:

  • Pancake syrup
  • Granola
  • Blood (I had a nosebleed. Sick.)
  • Root beer float
  • Tortilla
  • TV remote

Girl’s gotta eat.

Regarding the nosebleed, here I was just minding my own business, watching the Ryan Reynolds classic Waiting, E sleeping on my lap. Then I felt it. A nosebleed just feels so much different than, say, a runny nose. I put my hand up to my face and when I pulled it away, there it was. Blood. So I did what any normal person would do. I jumped straight up off the couch and let my baby fall into the huge divot where my ass had been, covered in blood drops. Of course he starts crying, but I’m too busy in the bathroom trying to plug up the fountain coming out of my face to deal with it. Once I got a sufficient amount of toilet paper crammed up my nose, I went and rescued E out of the couch hole. Still screaming, I decided his lunchtime had come a little early. So, I fed him with my head tilted back and a wad of TP hanging out of my nose.  It was totally glamorous.

How we work. And the couch that creates such amazing divots.

How we work. And the couch that creates such amazing divots.

Respect your mother

August 22, 2014 / / 3 Comments

My mom likes to tell this story about how one day I wouldn’t pick up my toys. She and I sat there in a standoff for two hours – her demanding I pick them up, me refusing. Then my daddy came home. Mom was in hysterics, and my dad just gently came over, asked me to pick up my toys, and I did it right away. She walked out the door and said, “She’s yours.”

It’s true, I am his.  I’m a daddy’s girl.

Growing up I never quite understood my mom. Why does the coffee have to be prepped the night before? Why do we always have to be places 30 minutes early? Why is the house so clean but she insists that it’s dirty? Why does she plan 15 different routes to the grocery store just in case? So much why. All of it seemed so crazy and unnecessary.

It took me having a child of my own for me to understand. All of that crazy is totally the opposite. It’s actually friggin’ genius.

You prep the coffee because the last thing you want to do at 5 a.m. is worry about the coffee. That life saving nectar should just be there. You get places 30 minutes early because it’s better than the stress you feel from being late. You think the house is dirty all the time because you look down at your infants’ hands and he has a ball of fur/spit/lint tucked away in his fist and you know the only way it could have gotten there is because you didn’t vacuum the floor for the four millionth time. You plan all those grocery store routes because your baby can’t handle the car being idle for more than 10 seconds without screaming bloody murder. One of them will have fewer stoplights and traffic, you just know it.

Before E, Peter and I debated whether or not we wanted any family to visit in those first two weeks. We’ll be worried about sleep and need that time to bond with the baby. Won’t they just be in the way? Finally after talking with my sister, I decided that having my mom here as soon as she would like after E’s birth would be a good thing. It’s perhaps the best decision I’ve ever made in my life.

Elliott and his Teeny

Elliott and his Teeny

Those first few weeks were pretty rough for me. I didn’t bond right away with my baby, which is something I’m embarrassed to admit. I’m insanely jealous of those women who report this gush of love as soon as they set eyes on their child. That wasn’t me. In fact, I couldn’t stand to hold him for two weeks. I would feed him, change his diaper and immediately hand him off. Perhaps it was the fact that he was rushed off to NICU and I didn’t get that skin to skin time or maybe it’s just my personality. Peter chased after me for 2 years before I would give him the time of day (thanks for your persistence, baby) and I kind of hate when people touch me. So to have this exceptionally needy stranger break its way into my life so suddenly? Let’s just say it didn’t go over well.

Thank God for my mom. She was here in Denver about 2 hours after E was born and right away starting doing the thing she does best. Take care of me. When we got home from the hospital, she kicked it into high gear. She took shift after shift, day and night, making sure Peter and I both got sleep. She cleaned my house and cooked us meals. When my milk came in like some kind of runaway train car, she was the one who made the phone calls to get me the lactation consultant. When I had to pump like my life depended on it, she took the baby so I could. She held him when I was totally losing my mind and was afraid to pick him up.

My mom is my hero.

Enjoying a book about a dino and his dog

Enjoying a book about the finer points of a dinosaur and his dog.

So to all of the kids out there, big and small, who don’t quite understand why their mother does what she does, just know she has her reasons. And when she tells you to pick up your toys, don’t wait until your daddy gets home to do it. Respect your mother. Because she deserves it.

My Birth Story

August 18, 2014 / / 4 Comments

You’ll just know.

Come on, people. No, I won’t.

After reading about the 4 billion different possibilities for what the beginning of my labor could look like, I thought that was the stupidest thing I’d ever heard. I still do. Here’s what I did know – something hurt, and I wanted to go to the hospital to have it checked. As it turns out, I was in full on active labor. Good guess, Tara.

It was the day before my due date, and I decided I needed a pedicure and Peter needed a haircut. I was obsessed with both happening no matter what. We weren’t going to look like shabby hooligans in all those post baby hospital pictures. We managed to do both, and I was glad. Side note: it’s hilarious to watch people’s faces when they ask you when your due date is and you can say, “tomorrow”.

First family photo. You can definitely see my oh so needed pedicure.

First family photo. You can definitely see my oh so needed pedicure.

Our evenings as of late had gotten pretty low key as the big day loomed. I had been having Braxton Hicks contractions for weeks, but as we sat watching TV, something was different. That shit hurt.

“Peter, I’m going to time these. They might be the real thing.”

“What? Really? Ok.”

An hour goes by.

“Peter, they’re like 5 minutes apart. I think this is real. I want to go to the hospital.”

“Nah, let’s just wait a little bit.”

“No. We’re going.”

Bags in car. Text to doula. Cousin Jeff called to pick up dog. Off we go.

I could have murdered Peter for every bump in the road that he hit. Like he had control of that or something. Regardless, he apologized for every one like a gentleman.

When we got to the hospital, it was already after hours so we had to use the call button, which I could barely press I was in so much pain. Thankfully, a nurse walked up and got us in quickly – she could tell I was legit.

When we got to triage, they asked for my insurance card and ID. Wait… where’s my ID? Seriously? Yeah, I had lost it. As I doubled over with the pain of the next contraction, the receptionist told me don’t worry about it, but that I needed to sign here, here and here. God only knows what binding contracts I had just put my name to.

I got into a room full of machines, changed into a hospital gown, and almost immediately ended up in a giant puddle of mystery liquid. (As it turns out, both labor and motherhood are just a series of one disgusting fluid after another. You’re literally soaked in… ummm question mark?… for months. Perhaps years. I guess I’ll find out.) I just knew my water had broken. I guess it was actually some other bunch of liquid because they said my bag was still intact, which seemed impossible after the puddle I just saw.

Next, they did an ultrasound to make sure E was facing the right direction. He was, and then I got to hear one of my favorite memories from labor. “Look! Your baby has hair!” I didn’t even know you could see that on an ultrasound, but sure enough he had HAIR. Evidence below.

Yup. That hair.

Yup. That hair.

After they were really, really sure I was for real, I got moved to a labor room. Somewhere in that period of time our doula, Julie, showed up. You guys… get a doula. Yeah, the word doula is cringe worthy, but I don’t know what Peter and I would have done without her. She coached us and held our hands through what would turn out to be another 20 hours. That’s right, I said 20 HOURS.

From here forward, things are blurry for me. Breathing, vomit*, whirlpool, breathing, vomit, concentration. That’s about it. It’s pretty much how nature guarantees you’ll do this again. Here are the parts I do remember:

  •  At one point, hours and hours in, Peter had fallen asleep or went to get food (fuzzy) and I was with Julie and a nurse named Marsha. Out of nowhere, I was hit with this moment of extreme calm and love. I reached out and asked for a hug from Julie and then started rubbing Marsha’s arm. For a moment, I was serene and happy, and I loved those two women more than I can describe.
  • “You’re still 7 centimeters dilated.” After hearing those words for the third time in 12 hours of active labor, I pleaded for an epidural. Yes, I tried to go all natural. Ha.
  • The exhausted excitement I felt when it was actually time to push.
  • The terror when my baby came out not making a sound and was whisked away to a small table in eye shot of my bed, surrounded by a half dozen nurses and doctors. His tiny chest was moving up and down so rapidly, struggling to take those first breaths of this life. Before he was taken to NICU, I was allowed to have him on my skin for a brief minute. Then he was gone. I sent Peter with our tiny baby boy and Julie knelt by my side, held my arm, and started to pray. Soon after stitches and delivering the placenta everyone left, and I was in that empty room alone. I watched World Cup silently on TV, my heart filling up with fear and sadness instead of love. That feeling is something that I still haven’t been able to completely shake.
  • Relief when I finally got a short video from Peter. It was of our little boy crying. Still, every time I watch it, tears of joy roll down my face. Our baby was breathing.

Thankfully, E is strong. He only spent a few hours in NICU before he was cleared to be with us. In that amount of time my mom had made it to Denver and she was able to hold her grandson for the first time. I was exhausted, confused, in pain, and happy. We had made it through labor and my baby was here.

That is my birth story as I remember it.

*My sister reminded me that I told her I threw up at least 20 times. It’s true. Every time I had a large contraction, I blew chunks. And THAT little detail, friends, is why you write things down.

You overproduce? What a nice problem to have.

August 13, 2014 / / 6 Comments
Freezer-Milk

My life’s work. That and my actual kid.

Breastfeeding should be easy. It’s what your body was made to do, right? The natural way. Well, nature is really messed up sometimes, y’all.

If you had asked me before baby if I thought I would be the breast milk overproducer of the family, I would have laughed in your face. These A and a half cups? No way. Try my mom or sister’s Ds.

But guess what? Size apparently doesn’t matter. I can produce enough breast milk to feed all the babies in Denver. It’s like a superpower. But with great power comes great responsibility, and pain, it turns out.

At the hospital I was super paranoid about making sure E latched correctly. I would buzz the nurses six times a day to come and check. “He’s on right… right?” They assured me his latch was perfect. I was feeling pretty good about myself and my baby. We’re doing this! I’m making food and you’re eating it! Nice.

But then my milk came in. And it wouldn’t stop. By day five I looked like I had undergone some kind of breast augmentation surgery. They were triple Ds – huge, shiny, and hot (temperature, not looks, I assure you). When I would lay down it felt like I was being crushed by overheated boulders. I slept maybe three hours over the next two days.

Even worse was they were so full E was having trouble latching. All that food and I thought he was going to starve. Irony at its finest. So, I called in reinforcements.

Lactation consultants are angels sent from boob heaven. Yes, she cost almost $200 for an hour visit, but I would have paid three times that. She came in full of cheer and knowledge. She weighed E pre and post feeding. Despite my fears, he gained 3 ounces after he nursed. He wasn’t starving after all. Momma on the other hand was in dire straights. “Pump,” the lactation consultant said, “Pump until you get the milk out.” So I did. Here’s how my next week and a half went. The following period of time was all done topless, regardless of who was in the room:

  • Feed E until satisfied, about 15 minutes.
  • Hand baby to Peter or mom.
  • Pump at least 10 minutes on both sides, massaging breasts until bruises form.* (Ok, she told me not to do that bruising part. Oops. I was desperate, you guys.)
  • Ice boobs for 5 minutes each.
  • Try to sleep. Try to sleep. Try to sleep. I can’t sleep. Oh, god, I can’t sleep. Am I going to die? I can’t sleep. Start singing songs from Pitch Perfect in an attempt to soothe myself. I can’t sleep.
  • Repeat every 2 hours.

*My hands got so sore, I called in the big guns. Yes, Peter massaged my boobs. Sometimes with my mom in the same room. Christ, y’all, motherhood is embarrassing.

If you’re a numbers sort of a person, that left anywhere from an hour to an hour and a half to try and sleep after each feeding. Considering my HIGH levels of anxiety and horrible ability to day sleep, let’s just say I was looking and feeling pretty rough at this point.

But the result? A freezer full of breast milk and a 10 pound baby after two weeks of life. That’s right – E gained his birth weight and then some. A whole extra pound of some. I felt accomplished. I had made a giant baby.

I'm 13 and a half pounds at 6 weeks? No friggin' way, mom.

I’m 13 and a half pounds at 6 weeks? No friggin’ way, mom.

Here’s the rub. Every time I tell this story, this is what I hear: “You overproduce? What a nice problem to have.” Ok, yes, I have a strong and healthy baby. But when you have to watch him choke and sputter, latch and relatch over and over (ouch, people), and see him get sprayed in the face because your boobs are like sucking on the end of a fire hose, it’s hard for me to think this is a nice problem to have. Not to mention the gas, excessive spit up, overabundance of dirty diapers, and colic-like symptoms due to the above. Plus, every time he starts sleeping in longer stretches the giant boobs of pain happen all over again (although not as crazy as the first time).

However, just like everything else I’ve experienced so far with motherhood, it does get better. My giant baby (up to at least 13.5 pounds now) already sleeps in 4 and 5 hour chunks at night likely thanks to my boobs and his weight. He always feels satisfied, and I never have to worry about him going hungry. I overproduce, and I’ve come to learn that it can in fact be a nice problem to have.

Poop colored badge of courage

August 11, 2014 / / 2 Comments

On Saturday, I officially earned my motherhood stripes. And they were poop colored.

I decided to take advantage of my maternity leave and spend a week and a half down in Houston visiting family and giving them all the opportunity to meet E. It was wonderful—like a new mommy vacation. I had tons of help, everyone wanted to hold the baby all the time, and my mom was a saint and took night shifts so I could get some sleep. Not to mention she watched E so I could get a massage and a pedicure. Delightful.

On the way there, my mom was awesome enough to fly with me so that I didn’t have to attempt the whole flying with a baby thing by myself on his first plane trip. It was smooth sailing—no delays, great weather and a seasoned veteran by my side.

On the way back, I was by myself. I got to the airport with plenty of time, made it through security without any hassle, and the flight was on time. It was all lining up to be a relatively simple adventure. I found a seat near the window on the side of the plane where I could easily feed E without flashing too much boob to those around me AND the middle seat was open. Score.

Well, the middle seat was soon taken by a teenage boy. All I could think was, “wow, enjoy the show, buddy.” But he fell asleep in the first few minutes, and I couldn’t help but think I averted a seriously awkward moment for us both. Score again. This was going well.

And then that B face Mother Nature showed up (sorry MN, please forgive me for my unkind words and don’t take it out on me later, k? K.) As we got near Denver, the weather was looking mighty awful. We all were told to sit down, buckle up, and expect a bumpy ride. Lame, but no big deal, that’s just what it’s like to fly into Denver. Well, it must have seemed terrifying to poor E, because all of a sudden I heard what sounded like three shotgun blasts coming from his back end. Yup, he pooped his pants. And not just some tiny little diaper stain, but the kind that leaks out the sides, running all the way up his back, sitting in his britches like some kind of yellow nightmare. Of course I was feeding him at the time so all that lovely diaper lava came squishing out in between us, leaving a poop colored badge of courage all over the front of my shirt. The fasten seat belt sign glowed above my head, taunting E and my misfortune. There we sat in a giant puddle of seedy shit and there’s nothing we could do about it.

That’s when Mother Nature really decided to test my mental fortitude. The storm was so bad we circled, and circled, and circled… for 45 minutes doused in doody. Yes it was awful, but what came next was so much worse. The pilot spoke the words that would become one of the single most horrible experiences of my life thus far: “We’ve been rerouted to Colorado Springs until the storm clears.” What. The. F.

So, 20 more delightful minutes went by with our hot bodies all smooshed next to each other, poop in between. I choked back tears, steeling my mind and trying to turn myself into a mommy robot, repeating the words “this too shall pass” over and over again. But guess what? It didn’t pass. For another FOUR HOURS.

When we got to the Springs, we sat on the Tarmac awaiting news from Denver about the weather. But that news was only delivered every hour on the hour, so in between we waited. Thankfully, I had the opportunity to change E on a nice man’s plane seat. I told him it was a diaper nightmare. He told me don’t worry about it—he has kids too. That didn’t keep him from casually moving the seat belt while I anxiously worked so it didn’t get dipped in poop. Bless you, stranger.

After the plane seat diaper change, we waited some more, and god it was hot. It would have been hot without a 13 pound superheated sack of potatoes attached to my body at all times. A sack of potatoes that would smile, cry, and smile like some kind of adorable bipolar miniature human that was tired of being held. Which he was.

As people lined up in the aisle for the bathroom they would look at me with a combination of admiration and sadness in their eyes sometimes saying, “How old his he? 7 weeks? My goodness, you’re so brave.” I can say I didn’t feel brave. I felt like the biggest fool on planet Earth for attempting to fly by myself with a not even two month old. Brave? More like pure survival.

But that’s when my faith in humanity was restored. As I stood there, tears welling up in my eyes, a woman got my attention. “Do you want me to hold him so you can go to the restroom? I have kids too and I know what you’re going through.” The bond of motherhood is a strong one, friends. Someday I will do the same for some terrified first time mother who is barely holding on. This woman might have in that moment saved my life. She held E for 15 minutes, all squirmy and irritated, while I waited in the longest bathroom line in the world. It was magic. I don’t know her name, but her face and kindness will stay in my mind and heart forever. Thank you, stranger.

Well, legally they could only hold us on the plane for 3 hours. So at 5:30 p.m., we deplaned in Colorado Springs. I rushed off, changed E, and let him stretch out on some dirty ass bench with another baby. I prayed it wasn’t covered in Ebola, but he was so happy for freedom that I put my germ fears aside and let him throw a tiny party with his arms and legs, listening to everyone that walked by say, “awww, he’s taking this so well!” Better than mommy… better than mommy.

At 6 p.m., we got word from Denver that the storm had cleared and we could head home. Which meant another round of boarding the plane and getting everyone situated, seat belts buckled, etc. etc. UGH. But we got on again with hopes of finally flying home, and it was good.

However, the plane flight from hell had another curve ball to throw. Hooray! I hadn’t chewed off all my nails and pulled out my eyebrows completely yet! LET’S DO THIS THING. A few people had decided to bail. Just not get back on the plane. Which I guess means paperwork. The kind where the flight attendants have to write down the name of every single person on the plane, one by one, spelling each correctly. I was ready to kill.

Finally, after 20 or 30 minutes of paperwork, we took off. My heart was starting to become happy again. Sure, I still had to get off the plane, get my bag, ride the shuttle to The Spot and drive home—but I was GOING home.

Unfortunately, the timing was all off now. When we first started our journey, I was hoping that this thing E has been doing lately that we call the Witching Hour would happen at home. Every night starting at around 8 or 9 p.m. and lasting until about 10 or 11 p.m., he’s fidgety. Not crying, not necessarily angry, just awake and fidgeting. But then, out of nowhere, he just stops—and passes out for at least 4 hours, sometimes more. It’s horrible, then amazing. Well, Witching Hour happened in an airport and on a shuttle bus, all while he was strapped to my body in a baby carrier. But since we spent 6 hours on a plane, this time he wasn’t just fidgety, he was PISSED. He screamed bloody murder until we got home.

But after I hauled him and all our stuff in the house, changed his dirty diaper and sweaty onesie, fed him and laid him in bed next to me, he smiled and cooed for about 10 minutes and then drifted off to sleep for 4 and a half hours. Victory. We made it.

Right then I knew I could do anything. I had earned my motherhood stripes all at once in one long, painful, miserable experience. I had a poop colored badge of courage, and I was proud.

 

© 2024 Mom Badge

Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑