Back to the Grind

Next week is the end of my maternity leave. Like it or not, I'll be heading back to work.

Our new schedule isn't going to be easy. With a one-year-old who protests every diaper change and an often-uncooperative three-year-old, I can barely fathom how we're going to get everyone out of the house on time in the morning. And with my husband and I both working full time, I have no idea how we'll manage to get dinner on the table before someone melts down (It might be one of the kids, it might be me—it's too soon to tell.)

However, there are many reasons why going back to work is a good idea. It forces me to get out of the same jean shorts I've been wearing all summer. It makes me think beyond what time the baby napped and what we're eating for dinner. It provides an opportunity to interact with people who know more words than "mama", "dada" and "no". It gives me some freedom and personal space—and it will likely give my girls a mother who appreciates them more because of both of those things.

Whatever guilt I might have felt about putting my kids in daycare is mitigated by the fact that my eldest, who's been in daycare for a couple of years now, would rather be there than at home most days. There will be an adjustment period for my second, I'm sure, but she'll be okay.

I know, without a doubt, that going back to work is the right decision for me.

And yet.

In an earlier post, I wrote about cherishing the "lasts". This "last", for me, is a big one. We don't intend to have any more kids so this is my last maternity leave, the last time I'll experience that bittersweet swelling of pride and sadness as I drop my youngest off at daycare for the first time. Sad at being separated from this little being whose life has been so closely entwined with mine until now, sad that she'll probably have a tough day as she comes to terms with her new reality...but also amazed and proud of how much she's grown and what a smart, gorgeous little girl she's becoming.

I'm ready to go back to work—and she may not realize it, but she's ready, too.

So I'll kiss her goodbye and try not to cry as I let her go. Whatever tears we both shed, I know that, for her, this is just the beginning. There's a whole world out there for her to explore, full of promise and possibility. I just hope she'll let me come along for the ride.

Don't Worry, Be Happy

I'll admit it: I'm a worrier. I'm the kind of person who, when something minor happens, mentally jumps ten steps ahead to the worst-case scenario. It's my way of managing expectations: if I imagine the worst, then what actually happens can't be all that bad....

But if I was a worrier before, then having kids opened up a whole new world of worries for me. Especially the first time around, I found I was constantly judging my decisions, questioning my instincts, filling my mind with self-doubt. 

Each new stage brought a fresh wave of worries. 

Infant: Is she gaining enough weight? Is it too early to start solids? Is she going to smother herself if I let her sleep with a stuffed animal?

Toddler: Should we take away her soother? Is she ever going to learn to potty-train? She's coughing a lot...should I take her to the doctor?

Preschooler: How do I deal with these temper tantrums? Why won't she listen? Am I doing the right thing by disciplining her?

Even with my second baby, I found myself worrying. Is she nursing well enough? Should I wake her up to feed her? Is it bad to swaddle her when she's more than three months old?

And then there are the ridiculous worries:

The baby's been sleeping for a long time...what if it's SIDS?
I got really mad at my eldest today—does she think I don't love her? 

Those irrational worries stem from my deepest, darkest fears. Fear of my inadequacy as a mother; fear of a cruel and dangerous world that, despite my best efforts, I can't control.

As a parent, one of the hardest things to do is to trust your instincts and your sound judgment. There's no instruction manual for motherhood, no magic set of rules or strategies that will make your kids turn out perfectly. And as much as you want to protect your children and keep them safe, you also have to give them space to grow and develop on their own.

So I'm trying, really trying, not to worry so much because it's pointless—and it's exhausting. Kids are all different, and there's no one on earth who knows my kids better than I do. That doesn't mean I won't get it wrong sometimes.

But it does mean that, most of the time, I'll get it right.

 

Out With the Old, In With the New

Right now, our family is going through a lot of changes. We had a big garage sale last weekend and got rid of a ton of things we're not using anymore—including the black sweater and most of the baby stuff, since my youngest is one now and hardly a baby anymore. 

We recently got the exciting news that we're going to be on the home reno TV show "Leave it to Bryan". We've been scrambling to get organized and arrange childcare in time for the filming, and our property looks like a demolition zone.

And, in just two weeks, my youngest will be starting daycare and I'll be going back to work.

As parents, we spend a lot of time creating and enforcing rules and routines for our children. Mealtimes, play times, bedtimes...their little lives are governed by these daily routines. So when they need to adjust to new circumstances, we worry. What if my baby hates her daycare? What if my eldest is too young to stay at her grandmother's house for a week? What if, what if, what if.... 

The funny thing is, kids have an amazing ability to roll with the punches. It's the parents who find it hard to change.

After my first mat leave was over, I remember dropping my eldest daughter off at daycare for the first time. When she saw that I was actually leaving her there, her little face crumpled and she started to wail. I beat it out of there and barely made it out of the room before bursting into tears. 

For the next few days, every time I dropped her off, she'd cry. I felt horribly guilty for leaving her—until a kindly staff member said to me, "You know, she only cries for about five minutes after you leave and then she's fine." Huh. As it turned out, she wasn't pining for me all day. And soon, there were nothing but smiles when I left for the day. That actually hurt a little...for me, that is.

Sure, my baby is probably going to be upset when I drop her off at daycare for the first time. But it won't be long before she adjusts to this new reality—probably faster than I'll adjust to our crazy new routine of dropoffs and pickups, full-time work and scrambling to fit some fun into the evenings.

Change can be scary, because it means letting go of what you know and embracing uncertainty. It often means moving out of your comfort zone in search of something new, different, better. But whether you like it or not, change is inevitable—and in parenting, it's the only constant.

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.