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!

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 second time around

I have a lot of friends who are pregnant or new parents, which -besides allowing me to welcome some adorable new babies to the world- has allowed me to reflect in their joy and anticipation at the incredible process of bringing a child into the world and adapting from our society's hyper-individualistic single/couple lives to parenthood.

It's also made me that much more aware of how different it is the second time around.

To set the foundation: this pregnancy was planned, and we're thrilled about it. That is, when I can remember I'm pregnant. It's a lot easier now that my belly protrudes like an engorged watermelon knocking into everything less than a foot infront of me, and little Mister is practicing his tap dance routine on my spleen at bi-hourly intervals. His birth is only 3-3.5 months away, so logistically, the preparations for that are on our minds as well.

But besides the joy and appreciation that there's a healthy little boy growing away, waiting to join our family, I sometimes have tinges of disappointment that I haven't been able to enjoy this pregnancy to the same level I was able to enjoy T's. The reasons for the difference are all completely understandable, and center primarily on the fact that there's not the novelty of a first time pregnancy, birth and transition to parenthood to celebrate. It's less novel for us, and it's less novel for those around us. I just wish that didn't translate to less excitement. Speaking as much from my opinion as a friend/relative of parents having their second (third or fourth) child, as that of a mother, I think the assumption is that second-time parents don't need as much support. They've been there, done that, know what to expect and already have all the baby clothes/toys/books/furniture/apparatuses.

In reality I'm only now appreciating the loneliness that assumption of aptitude can bring. Families stay for less time, friends offer less help (speaking as a guilty party!), and generally there's less of a circus made about the new arrival, though you're now balancing all the sleep deprivation and adjustments of a newborn with taking care of a (likely jealous) constantly-on-the-go 2 yr old as well! I do remember when T was a week or so old, B & I collapsing desperately into bed as Mom & Dad took her for a walk and thinking, "What on earth would we do if we 1) didn't have parents here, and 2) had a noisy toddler that was running around wanting to eat or play?"

We're now trying to get our heads around the fact that that will be our reality in just a few months. Our families will be coming (thank goodness!!), but due to unavoidable commitments in their lives, will not be able to stay for longer than 1-2 weeks at most. Luckily, we also have many wonderful people around us who I don't doubt will provide an excellent welcoming party and support network for us yet again.

And if there's one thing the last 2 years has taught me, it's that whatever comes, you adjust. Billions of families all over the world have chosen to have more than one child and lived to tell the tale; we certainly will too. We've got lots of examples around us, and my admiration and awe of those that have balanced caring for a toddler (or others) and a newborn continues to reach new heights. We'll just have to ask them for lots of advice.

On gratitude

To quote the great Albus Dumbledore, "Help will always come to those who ask."

OK, it's not a literal translation, which has something about wizarding school Hogwarts, but for me, for now, it carries the message. One of the strongest realizations in my life, and certainly in my life as a parent, is that you get by with a lot of help from your friends. And family. And the other special people the universe brings to your doorstep just when it seems you really need them.

It feels like the more upheaval our lives go through, the more we feel the safety net that holds us. Lately, this has come in the form of kindness and generosity from just about everyone we know.

Our parents and siblings have provided unconditional love and shocking generosity (both financial and in-kind) over the last two years in ways that continually amaze me. Old friends have kept close, despite the stubborn miles we have put between us for the last many years; many choosing to take the time and expense to come visit since we moved here (it is a lot closer than East Africa or Central Asia). And with our move to a new, unfamiliar city, new jobs and new roles as parents, new friends have come into our lives just when we needed them, providing a social family to help us raise T and make this home.

Indeed, thinking back I really don't know how we would have made it through without these people bringing just what we needed (often more) right when we needed it most.

A little closer to home, every post in this blog speaks silently or overtly of my closest rope- B. With each passing year our lines have become more intertwined, finding ways to offer support and safety as we each navigate our lives as individuals, husband and wife, professionals and parents. When I feel myself falling he's the first (closest and strongest) rope I reach for; but more importantly perhaps, he's often the one I'm holding onto when my balance is already off. He steadies me like no other. I realize over and over that he's the perfect fit for me, a loving, caring, beautiful person, who has been as true a partner in parenting as he has been for our other adventures over the last seven years.

And then there's little T. Many of these posts focus on the challenges of parenthood. They definitely exist, but I hope the joys are at least equally as evident. In reality, they blind the challenges with a light that would outshine the sun. Even in moments of mothering frustration, looking at her, really looking at her, I feel that same painful tear in my heart that opened when I first laid eyes on her. The feeling of my heart expanding to encompass a person instantly, unconditionally, eternally. She makes me happier than I have ever known.

It all makes J.K. Rowling's fantastical plot seem down right ordinary. Title character's story arises from his mother's willingness to die for him. Check. Title character survives with help from his friends. Check. Aforementioned headmaster's magical proclamation that help will come to those who ask. It seems our universe is on the same page.

To the universe and all of you, thank you.