There were three in the bed and the little one said...

TWO-TWO MILKS!!!!!

Likely bellowed from bed (his mood pre-milk is much like mine pre-coffee) or at the start of a long car ride once everyone is strapped in, most people who have met N soon learn his term for nursing. Some babies adopt adorable terms like "Mo-mo", "Nummies" or even the simple, Hooters-approved, "Booooobies!" N is more practical. "There are two of them, they make milk. It's not rocket science," I imagine him explaining, exasperated. 

I'm vaguely aware that a sizeable portion of the U.S. has some sort of opinion about nursing a nearly two year old. Some passionately support the health and psychological benefits for mother and child; others see it as socially unacceptable to provide nourishment to a child who's old enough to ask to be fed from a body part that society would rather resexualize. 

For me, it's simply a continuation of the mixture of feelings, challenges and benefits of feeding a newborn. It's often a pain in the boob. The physical discomfort has graduated from the cracked, raw nipples of learning to latch, to the exquisite pain of having soft, delicate flesh treated like the extendable rubber of a taught elastic band. The clawing scratches of infant fingernails made way for heel-to-the-boob kicks when suddenly, "toesies want two-two milks!" And now I am almost nostalgic for the awkward fumbling of public latch-ons with a squalling babe, when strangers and friends alike are often treated to N confidently locating and removing all coverings to his beloved Two-Two Milks at a moment's notice. 

I hear there are a few mothers out there who are able to marry modesty and breastfeeding for longer than a few months. That's wonderful. After 18 hrs of labor, birth, bleeding nipples and a screaming, hungry T, Modesty was simply reprioritized to somewhere between color-coordinating my linen closet and gnawing off my big toe.

But for a mama who spends 40-50+ hrs a week away from her two little ones, telling stories to a nursing N--bown eyes wide and attentive--when I get home from work; stroking his hair while he nurses to sleep at night; and when he wakes up, snuggling his body in a ball that I can tuck against my belly, are three of my favorite times of the day. Sure, he could get all his daily nutrition from food alone; but maybe not with breastmilk's antibodies and extra je-ne-sais-quoi. Sure, we would still cuddle if he weaned. But my arms would compete more often with the thrill of bed jumping, the curiosity of whatever his sister is up to, and the indefatigable draw of glowing screens. 

So I'll put up with my not-so-tiny bed-hog and the midnight roundhouse kicks to the face (see footnote on bed-sharing); the umpteenth assertion that I do NOT have Go-Go-Gadget nipples; and the occasional flash of boob to the unsuspecting public. We'll save pennies and patience for the excessive and expensive travel plans to keep him, and a familiar caregiver, with me on work trips. And if anyone is looking with eyes that judge me or him for being two and "still" nursing, let them look. I'm too busy feeding my son and trying to keep my clothes and sensitive parts in tact as I do so, to notice or care. 

Because he is my last baby, and once this particular connection is gone, it doesn't come back. Because I believe the clearest path to independence is the one children choose to pursue themselves. Because right now I can't give him everything, but this is a gift--of nutrition and connection--that I can. 

Photo on exhibit in the Nursing is Normal project, VT, by Studio Ten13

*We started co-sleeping in large part because as sleep-deprived new parents, the idea of getting up 5x a night to nurse a baby for 20-60 min, then finagle her into a crib, (start again if she wakes!) and then repeat it all 30 min later seemed ludicrous. We also had a newborn that refused to sleep for longer than 10 min unless she was nestled against another warm body. So out of desperation, and then choice, we co-sleep... but that story is for another post!

Life these days

Is kind of crazy.

I think every friend, relative and FB acquaintance is tired of hearing my repetitive response to "How are you/things/life?"

"Crazy." "Crazy busy." "Kind of nuts."

I'm 3 weeks into the 10 week mayhem that is my fall. The four Women PeaceMakers and the four Peace Writers they are paired with have arrived in San Diego, and while we all survived the 2 week intensive orientation training, I have returned to a mountain of unanswered e-mail and a 2.5 ft x 3.5 ft. white board To Do list, filled in emergency red. I feel like every day I wake up in the night or early morning, head filled with undone tasks, and then get to work only to find an avalanche of new requests coming in. I feel like I'm being buried in a sand pit; all attempts at climbing out are futile.

At home (or rushing around at work, feeling contractions a little too often), I remember I'm also 7.5 months pregnant. And mom to a toddler. And wife to a fantastic, but lately neglected husband. While trying to plan a homebirth at the 11th hour, and do a homework-intensive self-study birth preparation course.

So, while I love my job (and this time of year is what it's all about), adore my family, am excited and thrilled and anxious about the birth of our son (including these rushed preparations)... it is making for a crazy life at the moment.

So if that's my answer to your question, I'm sorry. I expect you'll get tired of asking and I don't blame you. It will likely be the same answer for the next two months, after which our lives will be a whole new kind of crazy...

And I'm very much looking forward to that.

My first heartbreak

They warned me there'd be a day where those dreaded words would come...

"I hate you Mama!"

I'm prepared for that. I imagine they'll be said in (hopefully) a fit of rage, after she hasn't gotten her own way... I hope she won't mean it; that what she hates is a decision, an action, not me.

What I wasn't prepared for was 8:30 p.m. on a Friday night, no rage in sight. A smiling, happy little two year old, brushing her teeth with me at the mirror, warm in her PJ's, about to choose a bedtime story...

"I want to sleep with Dada."

At first it didn't really sink in. There might have even been a moment of relief - boy, that makes things easier! Last week we bought (and I assembled) a huge, full-size twin "kids" bed from IKEA, complete with star canopy (it flips into a bunk bed when needed). The plan was to have B and I take turns sleeping in there with her, until she was back to sleeping through the night and he could put her down and go to her if she woke; freeing me to nurse and care for the newborn we'll have in 10 short weeks.

Tonight was supposed to be my night with her. Last night was B's, but she asked for me, so I joined them for the first few hours before slipping out to our more comfortable and spacious bed for a much-needed pass-out after a very long week.

I realized was a bit taken back by the certainty of this new request.

"You don't want to sleep with Mama?"

"No. T sleep in T's big girl bed with Dada."

Oh. She means it. She doesn't want me tonight. She'd prefer Dada.

I managed to hold it together till I'd conveyed the message and B had gone to put on his pajamas. Hiding in the kitchen in tears, I tried to reason with my emotions. Listening to them chatter as they got ready for bed, T telling him again about their day together, even including me and her "little brother" in an imaginary car ride, I knew I should feel happiness; pride that my daughter and her father had grown so close. That she felt so comfortable with him now. Even practically, that this was a necessary development that we'd been stressing and strategizing about in preparation for the baby coming. I should be thrilled.

Instead I felt like my first crush had just asked another girl to the dance. At the root of my heartbreak was the realization that her words had spoken to my biggest fear, that my desire to work would render me an absentee parent who's main function was to bring home a paycheck. That "Dada" would be the one to run to for comfort or to share celebration. The one she'd prefer read her a bedtime story or snuggled with as she went to sleep. The one she could trust to be there for her.

I understand this may seem trivial to many. I am having a hard time wrapping my head around why such a simple request hit such a nerve. Maybe I can blame hormones for my heightened sensitivity.

All I know is that about 30 minutes after I started this post, I heard a familiar voice call "I want Mama..." I don't think I even brushed my teeth before jumping into bed beside a squished B and a familiarly splayed-out 2 year old. I buried my nose in her hair and she threw her arm around my neck plonking her cheek on my forehead. I think it's the best sleep I've had in months.

The guilt of a working mother

Oh boy, 6 am is early.

Especially after heading to bed at 11 p.m. and two wake-ups in the middle of the night when T stirred. Now that she's in her own bed, in her own room, all it takes is to go in and hand her back her pacifier (I'll address the pacifier at 2 dilemma in another post!) which has rolled off the mattress or sometimes, lie beside her until she falls back to sleep. It's the latter that is no longer as easy said as done.

Getting on and off a crunchy (waterproof) 4-foot long crib mattress on the floor when one is 5 1/2 months pregnant, slowly and silently so as to not wake a lightly sleeping 2 yr. old, is about as simple as a circus trapeze act. Last week a 60 sec. freeze when I was trying to escape caused my neck to seize up for 2 days.

So why doesn't B just lie with her, unencumbered as he is by a watermelon-sized midsection? Because lately she's been asking for me. And while there have been lots of parenting roles and periods where we've made that transition and accepted the short-term tears it brings, I, like many women who spend the vast majority of their days, most of each week, 47 weeks of the year, physically and/or emotionally unavailable to their children, have Working Mother's Guilt.

Before Thea was born I joined a local walking group to meet pregnant and new moms. It was fabulous. In addition to the wisdom (or just experience) of being 5 months ahead of me in their pregnancies, then births and the roller coaster of new parenthood, it gave me a wide variety of perspectives on different babies, marriages, family dynamics, and work arrangements (basically just different lives). Those wonderful women taught me a lot, including the challenges and dilemmas that all women (and men) wrestle with during this massive shift of axis to parenthood. One of those dilemmas was with regard to work - who was going to stay at home, who was going back part-time, who was returning to full-time (and when), and who was looking for an alternate career to better balance work and family. What I learned was that every single one of these choices involved sacrifice and compromise, either with their partners, financially and/or emotionally. This post can only speak to my perspective - that of a FT working mother. But I know precious few women whose choice -to work or stay at home or somewhere in between - hasn't involved some measure (hopefully fleeting) of doubt or regret.

For me, the decision to work comes from recognizing an aspect of my personality that I sometimes wish I could shut off, but can't - a career drive that has luckily found a job I love. While I love T exponentially more, I also know I would not be as happy a person, and thus as good of a mother to her if I didn't have the personal fulfillment my work brings. This isn't just theoretical knowledge either. My only bouts with depression have occurred during two prolonged stretches of unemployment. I didn't like who I became and hope I don't have to show that side of myself to my daughter.

The result is that I live with guilt. Guilt for not being there. While I recognize that stay at home parents don't (can't) spend quality time with their children constantly, the fact is that B (as a SAHD) is there for her; she has learned to count on him, and to expect my daily departure. Luckily, it is no longer accompanied by the tears it was when she was little, but sometimes her resignation to my daily leaving pains me (if not her) just as strongly.

You'd think I'd be used to it now. As I was not eligible for maternity leave after her birth, I returned to work PT when she was 5 weeks old. I was back FT within a couple months. And naturally I have adjusted from those first weeks, but there are always ebbs and flows; when it flows, it flows hard: long hours and weekends during the fall, a big event and a week at the U.N. in the spring, with new commitments popping up all the time. By far my hardest transition of all was my first work trip away from her this past May: a trip to the Philippines that separated us for 13 excruciating days, forcing T to wean. How do you explain to a 24 month old why Mommy disappeared? How do you convey the concept of days passing (and getting closer to a goal) to a toddler's under-developed sense of time? How do you let her know that she was not abandoned? That Mommy does love you and is coming back.

In addition to the physical hours I spend away from her, the fact that I have a 40-50 hr work week affects the rest of my life as well. I wake at 6 a.m. to write because time spent on the computer when she's awake sacrifices those few precious hours I do get to spend with her. Our time together in the morning consists of only 30 - 90 minutes, during which I have to shower, dress, eat, probably check work e-mail and get off to work. After work, it's at best, from 5:30 - 8:30. Recently I've also tried to attend prenatal yoga 1-2 evenings a week (sometimes the only 75 min in my day that I really remember I'm pregnant and focus on connecting with this baby). Despite how deeply I value that practice, there isn't a day I head out (usually within 30 minutes of arriving home from work) without the guilt of saying bye to T for yet another hour and a half.

However, there are benefits. Not just for our livelihood which currently depends entirely on my income. But ironically, in some ways, for my relationship with T. Working Mother's Guilt is like a dull ache that is always present. It influences the way I value my time and activities 24-7 so that I can capitalize on my preciously-short time with T. I make adjustments to my schedule, like only going to the gym over my lunch hour or if I can get off work early (or squeeze in a quick session before I'd be home anyway). I try to find activities that I want to do on which she can join me (like running with her in the stroller). And lots of times I just say no. No to a social outing; no to a work engagement; no to a workout I really should do because I left especially early that morning, or we haven't seen each other much that week and I'm noticing the effect on both of us.

I always rush home from work because when I walk in the door, she runs to my arms. That hug and kiss of welcome is the highlight of my day. We cuddle on the couch and I ask her about her day. We read some books or play outside. I consciously try to include her in our conversations and routine daily activities. She plays independently a lot, which luckily gives B and I some productive adult time together as well. But I think Working Mother's Guilt has made me consciously aware that while I can't have the quantity of time I want with her, I can make every effort to make it quality time.

Or course I'm not perfect. It's after work, B's at yoga and she's watching "Elmo's Potty Time" as I type. But I'm snug beside her on the couch rather than at my desk, and I try to stop every couple minutes to discuss Elmo's latest bowel movements. She chatters to me excitedly about the gorilla who is eating the restaurant and drinking out of the fire hydrant, and if I hug her close she will likely smile and say what she knows I love to hear, "I love you too, Mommy."