Letting Go of the Black Sweater

We're having a garage sale on Saturday and, in preparation, I decided to go through the two wardrobe boxes languishing in our basement. Both were full of clothes I'd left down there when we moved a year and a half ago—clothes I wasn't sure I'd fit into, post-baby #2, as well as some seasonal items. As I was digging through one of the boxes, I found it: a black sweater with faux-fur panels down the front.

I bought that sweater two winters ago. That was the winter I was pregnant with baby #2. It was also the winter that my mother died.

There isn't anything special about that sweater. It's not a designer brand, it wasn't expensive; I'm pretty sure I bought it at H&M. But I bought that sweater because wearing it made me feel tough and edgy. Strong. And that was a time when I desperately needed strength.

I remember wearing that sweater to the hospice to visit my mom. It was January, and the weather was bitterly cold. We knew it was a matter of days, at that point, so my family took shifts: we'd sit at her bedside for a while, then drink tea in the hospice's kitchen or wander aimlessly down the nearby country roads. My mother was already so far gone that I wondered if she even knew we were there.

As she struggled for breath, I was struggling, too. Dealing with the nausea and fatigue of the first trimester, I also had to deal with the waves of sadness that crashed over me in the middle of the night. For me, those two events—my pregnancy with baby #2 and my mom's death—are forever intertwined. 

That sweater is a reminder of a particularly hard time in my life. But more importantly, it's a reminder that I got through it. And today, I no longer need that physical "armour" to feel strong.

 I am strong.

So I'll gladly put the black sweater out on Saturday with my other discarded clothes. I'm done with it now; someone else can have it. I hope it gives them the same strength it gave me.

I Never Thought I'd Breastfeed For a Year

If you'd asked me 11 months ago if I was going to breastfeed my baby for a year, I probably would have laughed. And then cried.

Despite the perpetual haze of sleep deprivation, I vividly remember the early days of nursing, when it seemed like that was all I was doing. The middle-of-the-night screaming when I couldn't get her to latch, followed by my own tears of frustration. The constant whir of the breast pump as I worked to keep up my milk supply while the baby learned to nurse properly. The leaking boobs, the smell of sour milk on all of my clothes, the discomfort of engorgement if she slept for too long. The evening cluster feeds, when she'd nurse for hours on end before finally passing out. And the pain, oh the pain...I had blisters in places I didn't even know it was possible to get blisters. 

I remember dreading the next feed and desperately wondering if I could palm her off with a soother instead. I remember trying all kinds of strategies to calm her down enough to wait for the milk to let down—swaying, singing, humming, bouncing, walking around....I remember the regular visits to the lactation consultant, the gnawing worry about whether she was getting enough, the continual questioning, "Is this normal?"  

I wasn't even taking it day by day; I was taking it feed by feed. Three months of nursing was my goal; six months was my stretch goal.

And then one day, it got a little bit easier. And then a little easier still. Once we got past the three-month mark, I began to feel like I knew what I was doing. (Remember, I never succeeded at breastfeeding my first child, so even though it was my second, I was still a total rookie.)

Then I blinked, and she was six months old.

I blinked again, and now she's a year old.

Obviously, I'm cutting down on the nursing sessions so that I can go back to work without causing her undue stress. I plan to keep breastfeeding in the morning and at night for a while, as long as we're both still happy with the arrangement, but she's getting better with her sippy cup every day and she eats more than her three-year-old sister. She's going to be just fine.

Women don't always talk about the difficulties of breastfeeding—perhaps because we're embarrassed to talk about that part of our anatomy, or because we're too ashamed to admit that something so "natural" may not come naturally. But I think it's important to share the challenges as well as the benefits, so that other women who are struggling know they're not alone. The beginning is hard, but it does get easier.

 I never thought I'd breastfeed for a year. But here we are.

You're Almost One, Baby

You're almost one, baby—but surely, it was only five minutes ago that you were a helpless newborn, feather-light in my arms.

I watch you now—crawling, standing, climbing; so close to walking—and you seem less and less like a baby and more like a little person.

Gone are the 2 a.m. feedings, those frozen moments with nothing but you and I and the deep stillness of the sleeping world around us;

The long days camped out on the couch in front of TV reruns while you nursed and slept, nursed and slept—so tiny I could hold you your little body in the crux of one arm;

The lazy afternoon naps with you curled up on my chest like a question mark, your head tucked under my chin, your steady breath warm and soothing against my neck.

Infancy passes in a heartbeat. You'll be a toddler soon—and it's just another heartbeat from walking to running, skipping, singing, dancing. 

Once, I was the centre of your universe. Now your world is expanding and, with it, your independence from me. This is normal and natural; this is as it should be. I can see you growing stronger and wiser.

But no matter how big you get or how old you are, I'll never forget 

The soft strands of your fine baby hair;
Your tiny fists holding fast to my shirt;
The sweet honeyed smell of your skin.

You're almost one, baby, and you're growing and changing every day. But I'll always be the guardian of your history. Because I knew you first.

Six Things NOT to Say to a New Mother

Nothing invites unsolicited opinions like having a baby, and it's amazing how inconsiderate people can be during that delicate period of adjustment known as new motherhood. A number of my friends have had babies recently, so if you're talking to any of them, I hope you'll take these suggestions to heart.

#1 - "You look like you could use some sleep." — You think? Maybe the reason I look tired is that I've had a bawling baby attached to my boob for the past 24 hours...

A better option: "How about I watch the baby while you have a nap?"

#2 - "You look great for someone who just had a baby!" — This sounds like a compliment, but it isn't. What it really means is, "You aren't a total wreck, considering that you've just pushed a watermelon out of your lady parts/undergone major abdominal surgery—but the truth is, you've looked better."

A better option: "You look great." Period. And if you can't honestly say that, remember what your mother always told you: If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all.

#3 - "Your baby is crying; she/he is hungry/tired/hot/cold..." — One of the biggest challenges of new motherhood is confidence: it's hard to feel like you know what you're doing when it's something that you've never done before. I can't tell you how many times I've been out with my baby and someone tells me that she needs a hat or her feet are cold (which, by the way, is because she pulls off her own socks. Short of taping them to her feet, there's nothing I can do about that.). It takes time and a lot of patience for a new mother to get in tune with her baby's needs. The most helpful course of action is to give her the space to figure it out for herself.

#4 - "How come you're not breastfeeding?" — I think I've made my opinions pretty clear in previous posts, but I feel that a mother's choice of how to feed her baby is hers and hers alone. Putting pressure on a new mom who can't or chooses not to breastfeed is unfair.

#5 - "How are you liking motherhood? Enjoy every moment!" — This is usually meant as a conversation starter, but the truth is, it's difficult to enjoy the early days with a newborn—especially if you're doing it for the first time. You're probably feeling exhausted; you may feel confused and unsure of yourself. You may have the baby blues. The idea that you have to enjoy every explosive diaper change and screaming fit at 2 a.m. is totally unrealistic.

A better option: "How are you doing?" Offers of help and support are always welcome.

#6 - "Are you going to have another baby?" — Seriously? During those early sleep-deprived days, having more kids is absolutely the last thing on your mind. (In fact, you may be secretly wondering if it's possible to give this one back. Just for a little bit, so you can get some sleep, maybe wash your hair....This feeling is normal and will pass.)  

Let's wait until the cluster feeding is over to discuss that, shall we?

Cherishing the "Lasts"

As parents, we make a big deal about all of the firsts. The first smile. First tooth. First word. First steps. First day at school. And so on. But in our excitement to move on to the next milestone, we don't always take the time to value the "lasts"...probably because often, we don't know when they're going to happen.

Barring any surprises, I've had my last pregnancy. The last time I'll feel a new life growing inside of me; the last time I'll hold a wailing newborn with tears in my own eyes and think, Hello, my little one...I've been waiting so long to meet you. 

In a week, it will be the baby's birthday—the last time we have to count her age in months instead of years. In a month, it will be the last day of my last maternity leave.
 
One of these days will be the last time I nurse the baby, or the last time I rock her to sleep in that green rocking chair I've spent so many hours in. One day, my three-year-old will call me "mama" for the last time, moving on to "mommy" or "mom" instead. 

Don't get me wrong, there are some "lasts" that I won't miss. The last cluster feed, for example...spending hours camped out with a baby attached to my breast. Or the last diaper change, whenever we finally get there.

But each age and stage has its unique and fleeting joys and challenges. And I think we need to cherish—and mourn—all of the "lasts" before we can truly move on. 

So I'll pack up the swaddling blankets, the nursing pillows and the newborn toys for our next garage sale—but not without a pang of regret.

Thank goodness there are so many firsts to look forward to.