Shopping for baby bottles, childcare, and truth

I understand a lot of things. But I really don't get where decisive people get their confidence.

When I watch people lobby for political figures or parties, for movements, for ideologies, I watch in awe. When I see people rage at each other on Fox News, I am in a state amazement (slightly disgusted amazement, but amazement nonetheless). These people know what they believe, and they have no patience, no room for other opinions. How, for instance, can so many people be SURE George Bush is evil, when they haven't even met him personally? How, really, can I determine where I stand on any legislative issue when both sides make such a darn convincing case? But, most importantly, how in the heck can I determine which brand of bottles to buy my son?

I stood in the aisle at Target (with a slightly impatient husband, a hyper Lucy, and a sobbing six week old) musing on this very question. The first issue is that I breastfeed, so bottles have always seemed like somewhat mysterious, foreign territory. Aventi? Nuck? Dr. Brown? Cheap Target brand? They all claim the same things on the side: Reduces colic! Stimulates breastfeeding! No more gas and burping! And so, I stand, paralyzed with that familiar should-I-order-the-chicken-or-the-steak-and-the-waiter-is-in-a-hurry-and-everyone-is-waiting-on-me feeling.

Then there is choosing a preschool. This is difficult because they claim such opposite, but all good things. One claims to set my child academically apart from the crowd. The other claims to foster creativity and individuality. The other focuses on creating a global citizen, one that prizes diversity and learns many languages. Can't I have it all? Apparently the answer is "no". And thus is my problem with choosing ice-cream flavors, childcares, bottles, and political pundits. I want the good (and not the bad) of everything.

In case you're curious, I chose to order one of all three brands of bottles for Zander to see which he liked best. It turns out he doesn't care. He would prefer to drink from the tap. And as for daycare, we rejected all of the high claims of the preschools (which also ended up being sold for quite a high price) and decided to come back to the familiar daycare coop we belonged to last year. I'm betting that Lucy won't be the most global, academic, or creative kid in the world, but that she will do just fine.

Sometimes it's a roll of the dice. And sometimes you take a leap of faith.

GUILT

A close third to the feelings most commonly experienced by mothers (running just behind love and fatigue) is guilt.

Unlike exhaustion, guilt follows mothers throughout the journey, morphing slightly to fit the demands of their changing children. With newborns, the guilt springs right alongside the nightime feedings and constant diaper changes. (Will I really mess up nursing if I give him a pacifier just this once?? Oh no! I never gave him infant massages . . . will be we be connected?). Oftentimes, due to competing, irreconcilable voices in my head, guilt is the only option. If I don't pick him up everytime he cries, I feel like I'm neglecting him. If I do pick him up everytime he cries, I feel like I'm spoiling him.

My interactions with my three year old prompt guilty fears about what I should be doing with her (I barely even read to her or work with her on fun educational pursuits. She's totally getting neglected with this new baby on the scene.), as well as what I shouldn't be doing with her (What kind of mom gives their kid a sucker BEFORE dinner? Seriously- I'm letting her watch Toy Story AGAIN tonight?). Most menacing, however, is the guilt that springs up when I observe Lucy's development or behavior. (I can't believe she just ripped that toy out of her friend's hand! WHERE did I go wrong? How can my daughter be the only almost-three-year-old in the world to still need a pacifier to sleep and to actively resist potty training. How did I screw her up this much?)

My midwife explained it to me this way, when she lectured me for 30 minutes before we left the hospital: Most people are content to NOT be perfectionists in life. We don't feel like we have to be NBA stars or high status political figures, or famous published authors. But nearly EVERY parent feels they have to be, at all times, amazing. This is unrealistic, and because human beings are pretty darn resilient, it doesn't matter that most of us can't measure up. Most of the time, it's just about showing up and being there, with whatever strength and wisdom we can muster up for that moment.

So today, I commit to (slightly) lowered parenting expectations. I do not have to be up-to-date on every parenting theory out there. I do not ALWAYS have to be totally consistent. The odds are my kids will be decent people because Justin and I are decent people. And the odds are, at some point, when my daughter makes up her stubborn mind within the next ten years, she will stop peeing and pooping in a diaper.

I'd write more- but I've got to run and spend some time with the newborn. After all, what kind of mother am I to blog instead of give him 100% of my undivided attention? :)

A Thing Too Impossible . . .

"Before she goes into labor, she gives birth; Before the pains come upon her, she delivers a son. Who has ever heard of such things? Who has ever seen things like this?" -Isaiah 66: 7-8

I cannot stop smiling. This is incredible to me, because from the third day until about the third month of my daughter's life, I was an emotional, sobbing, depressed mess. Now six days into the life of my son, I am beginning to trust that I may not again fall into that oblivion of despair again. No one knows precisely what triggers PPD, but it's hard to believe that the actual birth experience that occurred couldn't be one contributing force. Instead of leaving the hospital sore, drained, drugged, and in-shock from an emergency c-section and a daughter thrown into NICU, I got to leave with a very large and healthy son and a clear mind. Just in case you may be interested, here's my Zander birth story:

5/31/11

4AM: I wake up with some good contractions. They were good enough to start timing (10 minutes apart), but not good enough to convince me of a thing, since my body had been revving up for the main event for nearly three months.

6AM: Justin gets up to leave for work, so I tell him about the pain. He tells me to keep in touch, and is off (this was not, after all, the first time this pregnancy he went to work when I thought I could be labor.) They were now more like 7-8 minutes apart, and increasing in intensity.

6:30: With Lucy now demanding and awake, I call Justin on the phone: "I am getting s-c-a-r-e-d," I tell him, not wanting Lucy to know my emotional state. "These are getting really bad." "Call the office," he replies, "I can't leave work unless we are actually going into Labor and Delivery."

6:45: I text my doula, and guiltily dial my midwife as well. My doula has advised me to stay home and labor until I can't take it anymore, but my midwife has advised that I don't labor at home since this is a VBAC. I feel a bit stuck between these two minds, and am definitely in a doable state of pain. But I want my husband with me, so I call the midwife and am advised to go to labor and delivery by at least 9AM.

9AM: We drop Luce off at a good friend's house. She is happy and content. She knows today could be the day.

9:08: Contractions are 3-5 minutes apart, and I cannot talk or walk through them. I still feel great in between them, and am excited. We go through a McDonald's drive thru, where Justin gets some greasy breakfast and I get a large iced tea, which ends up seeing me through my entire labor. I wonder if a lot of people go through drive-thru's while in labor.

9:15: Justin and I talk about how GOOD we feel about this, how at peace. This day, this moment, this decision to go to the hospital feels completely right. His guess is that I'm at 6cm, and my hope is that I'm at least past the 2-3 I have been for the past month. We say a prayer in the hospital parking lot.

9:30: I'm relieved to see my amazing midwife AND doula already waiting for me at the hospital. My midwife says (slightly disappointed): "She's still smiling." (Aka- she can't have progressed much.) I sign some consent forms, pausing between contractions. My midwife comes in and checks me immediately. "Well- you're 8cm and 100% effaced. Things are going to start moving quickly." Utter shock and millions of phone calls commence. A flurry of activity. IV is inserted, water is broken (thin meuconium puts everyone on high alert, but my midwife assures me this is normal for post-term babies), I meet the OB on call.

10: Flurry of activity has ceased. There is only peace. Soft music from my doula floats around me, and this is profoundly helpful for me to focus on during contractions. I am completely happy. In between pains, we make small talk about various things. During contractions, I like things to be silent. I close my eyes. I breathe. I am astounded at how much I want my husband beside me. Hugging him during contractions while my doula pushes on my back is my favorite position. I try the birthing ball, kneeling on the mat, standing, lying on my side.

12: My parents come and the pain gets serious. I am now content to just lie in the bed on my side, and I find I now need to vocalize the pain in some way, so rather than being silent, I moan. Everyone encourages me to make my moans low and deep. I do my best.

12:30: I start to feel pressure. After a check, the baby is at +1 station, but I am at 9cm. I feel strangely relieved that I don't have to push.

1: I feel the most insane sensation of a baby suddenly slipping down my pelvis. My cry alerts my midwife to check me, and she assures the room that I am, as they say, "complete." "I always knew my daughter was a perfect ten," my mom quips. I do not smile at the joke.

1:15: My memory fades at the pushing stage. This was, for me, the most intense part of the experience. I mostly recall hearing the authoritative voice of my midwife: "Push through the pain, around it, above it, right towards it." "Reach deep within. You can do this." At one point her voice gets serious and she has me switch sides. I know this means the heart beat has dropped, and they strap me with oxygen. The next push I get him out from under my pelvic bone and her serious tone evaporates. My back suddenly stops hurting during contractions. I am so hot I can't even describe it. I'm also shaking uncontrollably.

1:30 I can't really think about what is happening, because it seems too incredible. The phrase "a thing too impossible" keeps going through my head. I keep pushing through contractions, but hurt so much all the time that I'm unsure when they stop or start. I'm advised to relax between them. "I'm having trouble relaxing," I cry out shakily. Everyone laughs.

1:45: At some point my mother-in-law enters the room. I am so beyond the point of even noticing or saying hello.

2: I know I'm getting close by the gasps in the room. "He has so much dark hair." "He's right there, Julie!" "You are almost done!" Now I hear the voices of my family members. I can't bring myself to open my eyes, or look in the mirror I asked them to set up, or even really feel for the babies head. I can only exist in the moment of excruciating pain.

2:11: A feel a sudden release and quick movement leaving me. To my absolute shock, a wet, floppy BABY is thrust on my chest. Astonished. Amazed. This was it?! I did this? Seriously?! He isn't crying, and he seems nearly asleep. "Is he okay?" "We are going to clamp and go."

2:12: The minutes they whisk him away, he revives with a hearty cry. I get my baby back. He is 9lbs, 4 oz. Another life begins.

Waiting for Our World to Change . . .

One sunny morning not so long ago on the way to Lucy's daycare, "We Keep Waiting for the World to Change" was blasting on my radio. The song may be cliche, overplayed, and predictable, but you have to admit, it's catchy and happy. Luce took to it immediately, singing along with the chorus and asking for me to play it again and again and again and again. (Unfortunately, the concept of "we have no control over what plays when" radio is pretty foreign in her world of DVR, OnDemand, and YouTube.) The song has only played once in the car, and still, at least a month later, Lucy asks at least once every other day for "Waitin' for the World to Change" as I strap her in the carseat. It's an appropriate song for this stage in our family's life for a lot of reasons (mostly the 41 weeks pregnant one), but here I want to capture a snapshot of gratitude for the waiting.

Because Xander/Zander has chosen to take his sweet time, we have had an incredible week of "just the three of us" moments:

*Playing in mommy and papa's bed in the morning, mostly involving gleefully hiding in the blankets and finding each other.
*Baking brownies together. Not screaming due to sleep deprivation when huge raw egg messes result.
*Taking slow walks around the neighborhood. Pausing to slip off our sandals to feel sand on our toes.
*Pushing a baby doll around in Lucy's stroller at the Farmer's Market. Cracking up at the shocked look on people's faces when they peek into the stroller expecting to see a baby, and being greeted instead by a maniacal-smiling plastic replacement.
*Looking through photo albums of Lucy's birth and toddlerhood and talking a lot about what is to come.

I could go on and on, but you get the point. Sometimes flowers sprout right there in fields of frustration. I know in less than a week "just the three of us" will have morphed into "just the four of us", and our world will have indeed, totally and completely changed. So, since this current world ain't so bad itself, I might as well take a moment to relish it . . .

Selfish Parenthood

It's time the world knew the truth:

People seem to stereotype parents (particularly mothers) as somewhat sacred, selfless creatures. We rise at all hours to nurse our little darlings; we sacrifice our careers, our social lives, our pre-pregnancy bodies, for the sake of nurturing and loving our infants. We even tend to lose a piece of our identity in the process, known more as "so and so's mommy" than our previous, indpendent selves. And of course, this assumed generosity of mythic proportions is not entirely unreasonable. After all, I no longer watch anything on television that doesn't involve Elmo, Dora, Yo Gabba Gabba, or some other strangely disturbing three-year-old allure.

But here's the dirty secret:

Parenting (especially parenting your own biological children) is quite possibly the most egocentric project anyone can undertake. I know this, not just because I personally gain great pride from my own undertaking of said project, but because I watched parenting from the outside when I was a brand new teacher. And let me tell you from experiencing more than my share of insane, irrational rants from otherwise normal, logical people: having a child catapults some folks into the most self-centered, narrowed-perspective, all-about-us versions of themselves. Only when you are a parent can you be excused for believing that something that sprung from your body can do no wrong, should never receive an A- in anything, and should dictate the needs of an entire group of people.

Personally experiencing parent-pride has further proved my beliefs here. I see myself silently scrutinizing every cute thing Lucy says, every adorable face she makes, for pieces of myself. "I hope she got that from me," I think when she is sweet and kind and intelligent. "That must come from Justin's side," I think, when her stubbornness is unyielding. Every night she makes up song after song to put herself to sleep, and I find myself, each night, more in love with the songs as they bring me back to my own preferred method of putting myself to sleep when I was a young child. "What a CREATIVE, MUSICAL child," I smirk proudly. Perhaps the greatest evidence of the identity-promoting-parenting-connection involves status updates and photos on Facebook. For the most part, if you are a parent, your cute child ends up being front and center of the majority of the photos posted and, for me, the status updates the dot my page. This is no accident. Facebook pages are vehicles for self-promotion of identity. My kid is the coolest thing about me. Of course I'm going to flaunt her.

Sorry to blow the whistle, all you parents who have been enjoying pats on the back for your selfless family-first choices. But we insiders know this story well. We are happiest, we are most self-satisfied through our vicarious lives in those little people we helped create. . .

How to Prolong Your Pregnancy . . .

People counfound me for all sorts of reasons. Here's one: folks generally get sick of being pregnant after 40 weeks.

The advice online is all about how to trigger labor, get to see your baby, and regain your body back. My theory: the people writing this blogs and contributing to these websites have either never had a baby or are about to have their first. And they, like I before having Lucy, have no idea what a greater disruption having a newborn in the home is in comparison to being slightly large, sore, and overdue. Because of this, I propose a new topic entry into the abundant genre of pregnancy advice: "How to Prolong Your Pregnancy". And, since I am currently five days overdue, I happen to be quite the expert on the subject. Here's what you can do so that you too can gather amazed stares from folks on the street, so you can frustrate your anxious friends and family who are just dying to meet your new little addition. In essence, here's what I've done:

*Eat ridiculous amounts of cottage cheese, salt and vinegar chips, and grapes, mixed together.
*Carry your three year old (or a 30lb weight) around all the time.
*Watch an embarrassing number of "baby story" shows in which, time after time, women just spontaneously "go into labor", as if this is an easy feat to accomplish, requiring no effort at all.
*Work out everyday on the elliptical to the point where the undergrads working at the gym say with nervous laughter: "You are banned from the gym once you hit your due date". Then, continue going to the gym once it passes.
*Tell everyone when you are 34 weeks pregnant that your midwife is afraid you might go into labor early. Then watch God laugh as you hit 41 weeks.

So yes, I'm still pregnant. But I'm also still blogging. And if Zander had already entered the scene, I can promise this blogging thing wouldn't have been happening.

P.S. If you do decide you want to make an entrance into the world anytime soon, baby boy, well I'd appreciate it to happen sooner rather than later. . . . your head is only getting larger . . .

The Pregnant Professional

Let's just face it: Being 40 weeks pregnant is an obscene, in-your-face assertion.

When your belly is this size, there is no way to conceal your upcoming addition. No one needs to ask "What will you be up to this summer?" No one offers you wine, and strangers register vague fear on their face when you sit beside them, as if they imagine they may be called upon to deliver a wriggling infant at a moment's notice.

This is why I solidly recommend attending an academic conference the weekend of your due date. If you can remain professional-sounding, if you can miraculously obtain an air of intelligence, if you can get people to take you seriously without veering into baby talk, and if you can keep your feet from swelling so much they fall off, you know you have arrived. You are a true professional. You have not only successfully distracted yourself the fact that, despite your midwife's fear you would deliver weeks ago, you are STILL not in labor, but you have established that being a mother doesn't inherently detract from being a member of academia.

Of course, there's also the distinct possiblity you could fail terribly. You could find yourself in a state of panic in the morning, unable to find anything to accomodate your size from your "professional wardrobe," thus forced to wear an ugly shapeless flower-filled sundress. You could, like I did today, find yourself unable to have a conversation withoug blurting out: "My due date is tomorrow!" and "You won't BELIEVE what my three year old said the other day!" You could fail to prepare to present anything for your working session (since you thought you'd be in labor, after all), and instead sit nodding dumbly at the brilliance of all of the smaller-stomached presentations. You could hear your voice reverberating in the atrium at lunch: "After all, I'm eating for two!" as you snag a fourth cookie. You might even find yourself interrogating a new acquaintance about exactly how the delivered their third child without pain medication rather than discussing their research interests. Worst of all, you could, with great paranoia, imagine that everyone is looking at you judgmentally, surely thinking: "Look at THAT grad student. She surely isn't taking her career seriously enough."

So I may not have been at my professional best today. And I may not ever be, or at least for another 18 years or so. Nevertheless, I stand with my belly firmly placed forward. Juggling both maternal and professional identities is a choice I have made. They overlap in messy ways; they even inform each other at times. And although I may never publish quite enough research articles, and although I will never be the mother than sends "made from scratch" cupcakes to the kindergarten class, I may just scrape by. After all, mediocrity can't be such a curse if it results in opening up so many different opportunities for joy, for growth, and for life.