The Post-Partum False Dichotomy

(This is not medical advice.  Talk to your doctor for that.)

I keep coming back to perspective, but heavier this time.  I'm hoping I can reach out to the moms who need it most but are too afraid to speak up.  It's a topic that can be very sensitive for a lot of moms (more than you'd think, and that's really ok).  I am unashamed and unapologetically ready to be open about this.

You've no doubt heard of post-partum depression.  Loss of appetite, fatigue, overwhelming sadness.  But what about when the symptoms don't add up to post-partum depression?  When something is definitely wrong, but it's not depression, and it isn't as mild as the "baby blues".  Those are the only two things that could possibly be wrong, right?

This is when it started.

Enter:  post-partum anxiety, the lesser known sister of post-partum depression.  I'm wondering how many moms out there experience it, but because every questionnaire they're given doesn't show depression they figure they have to just get over it, let it go, ignore it.  "It'll pass," everyone promises.  "All new moms worry and that worry never ends,"of course.  Hell, you'll be in a hospital bed at 80, IVs dripping, DNR/DNI signed, and you'll still ask if your babies are ok.  I've seen it.  But there is a line between rational concern for their well being and irrational all-out terror.  I only barely knew the difference, but it was enough to raise a red flag in the shreds of sanity that were remaining in my logical left brain.

A common sight; I wouldn't hold her.  Today, it's the opposite.

I remember figuring it out.  I laid on the couch, crying as quietly as I could so to not wake my husband. In my head I was mourning the loss of my brand new, still breathing and thriving baby girl.  I couldn't let go of this thought that I'd never witness her grow into adulthood, every day was going to be our last together.  I refused to bond with her; why should I?  I wasn't willing to get attached just to have my heart broken by losing her.  I'd see the shadows all around, hear the noises of those imaginary monsters ready to break in and steal her in the nights.  I wouldn't eat, it was impossible to sleep.  Panic attacks became my new norm, along with frantic phone calls to my husband begging him to come home from work; eventually these calls became a daily occurrence.

I like to think the deities that be made her so happy from the get-go to try and reassure me on a subconscious level.

When I saw the outline of the beast that was taking over my reason and preventing any happiness or enjoyment in what should've been a wonderful bonding process, I pieced together the information I had from physiology and psychology courses and I knew what was happening was wrong.  I knew it needed to change; actually arriving to the decision to accept help was a whole different problem to overcome.  But I did.  My biggest regret is waiting as long as I did.  I wasted precious time that I will never get back.  If you have any concern at all, please talk to someone; just because it isn't depression doesn't mean it's "only the baby blues".  Anxiety is just as serious as depression.

The chemicals flowing through your nervous system are unbalanced due to hormonal fluctuations specific to pregnancy and childbirth.  If you had issues with anxiety or depression prior to pregnancy, you may be more susceptible to these changes.  I never had anxiety before pregnancy, it was new to me and the physical manifestations were what clued me in that this wasn't depression.  The panic attacks convinced me to look into the possibility of anxiety after baby.  Heart racing?  Skin crawling?  Rapid breathing?  Can't sit still?  Feel like you're going to die?  Sense of impending doom?  Some days I'd be sitting in a chair by a window, eyes fixed on the horizon, just waiting for the sun to explode and the whole world to incinerate, trembling and nauseated.  My first two babies came with no out-of-the-ordinary mood changes.  I'm not sure why it happened the third time, but it can.  It can come without any warning at all.

The last calm moment, before the post-partum hormone storm.

My hope is that this will make it out to at least one mom that is going through what I was.  It's important to hear that you aren't broken, you aren't a bad mother, you aren't weak, you aren't flawed, and most importantly you aren't alone.  This is what I needed to hear, too.  My doctor held my hands in hers and said in her most serious tone (she's kind of a bad-ass, but I wouldn't have her any other way.  I need a firm hand) "This is normal and even though it isn't ok, just know it isn't your fault and we're going to fix it.  You're a good mom.  This happens."  Even the slightest hormonal shift can completely change your demeanor (PMS, anyone?).   You are not a bad mom.  There are many others going through exactly what you are,  me included.  It may never subside completely, even with medication, not until your body has balanced itself back out and that could take some time.  Breastfeeding could further change the situation as that's a whole different set of hormonal changes.

This is the one I probably SHOULD worry over more often than I do.

Don't wait, if you're worried.  Find someone who will listen, really listen to you.  You're worth it, you deserve to enjoy those first months.  Your relationship with your baby is worth it.

Got Perspective?

(If you're not a parent, this post might offend you.  I'd apologize, but it wouldn't be sincere.)

Recently I was listening to a popular local radio station, which in and of itself is a bizarre occurrence.  I'm highly resistant to change, and what's popular in music is constantly shifting.  It makes my head want to explode.  For some reason that morning I had it on, and like every other radio station in the morning, they talk more than they play.  This particular station has a bit where people call in to complain about whatever, but that day... that day had a THEME.

Hey nonparents, call in to complain about crap parents do.

Are you kidding me?

I was stunned.  I couldn't listen, for the safety of the people who were going to deal with me on that day, I had to turn the radio off.  Here's the thing: complaining is ok.  Venting about a situation or someone that was rude TO you.  But to complain about something you have absolutely NO perspective on?  I could understand calling in to say there was this child who wasn't being watched that knocked over your tray at a restaurant/ran into you/caused chaos.  The key here is how it affected you.  I took a deep breath and assumed that would be all the complaints they received.

Ignorance is surely bliss, because if I wouldn't have checked out their Facebook page ten minutes later I probably wouldn't be writing this post now.

The complaints ran the gambit from "Quit using child leashes" to "Talk about something besides your kid".  Please, someone tell me how another parent using a restraint on HIS/HER child affects your life? If my husband and I weren't socially awkward hermits and were more often in public places, N would've probably been a leash baby.  She has no fear, she isn't concerned at all if we're not nearby and she WILL wander off without a word.  In a crowded space, this could be problematic.  Enter: a device that keeps you connected to your child at all times.  That, my friends, is peace of mind.  When it comes to your kids, peace of mind is everything.

The days before we considered a leash.

Which brings me to another favorite:  "Stop telling us we don't understand because we aren't parents."  I'm sure when some parents say this phrase or variants of it to nonparents, it can seem condescending and rude.  Different people = different intonations.  The plain truth is, however, that you simply can't know what kind of parent you'll be until you ARE a parent.  No one can know what they would do in big, complicated scenarios until faced with them.  So when you try to tell a mom/dad how they should be carrying out punishments/feeding their kid/buckling them into a carseat, you might see how this could incite the response you find so condescending.  How do you think you're making that parent feel, the one who might already be embarrassed about her child's behavior or feeling awkward about being approached/openly judged on his/her parenting skills?  It's distasteful enough when moms(dads) judge other moms(dads), for no two children are the same, and no one's life is identical, so none of us knows just how another's child should be raised.  But if you've never had a 2-year-old little girl scream in your face because you took the ball away, at decibels that could make your ears bleed in the middle of Target at 6pm (when everyone else has decided to go to Target too), and you have to take that little girl home and hopefully try and teach her why her reaction was wrong and mold her into a calmer/more patient human being... well, I'd ask that you please don't complain about how I'm handling the situation as long as it isn't causing harm to your physical person.  (Ok, if you're ears bled that night and you're reading this now, you know my email address, go ahead and contact me.)

Yep, my six month old N "eating" a marshmallow.    Judge me.

The weight of the world is on our shoulders (x2 or x3 or x4, 5, 6), the future belongs to the generations of children we're raising, that is probably freaking us out enough (I know I have mini panic attacks weekly).  We'd prefer not to add outside judgement on top of that.

This leads me to "Find something else to talk about, besides your kids", a close relative of "Please stop posting pictures of your kids on Facebook all the time".

My mind?  Blown.  Hold on, before I get into this, let me post ANOTHER picture of my kids.

For the viewing pleasure of all the nonparents who may be reading.

Ok, onward.  I could talk about work, but if I start talking about that then it inevitably leads to questions of how I manage to work overnights and take care of my kids during the day, how hard it is to be away from them ever, how taking care of the elderly is like taking care of kids.  I could talk about school, but that leads to conversations of how I do homework with my daughter at night, how I'm hoping all this time I spend away is inspiring them to become the best people THEY can be just as I am doing everything I can to make a better life for us now.

Or I could talk about how I run and box, but that would of course lead to discussing how I find honing my fight-or-flight skills in the face of the impending zombie apocalypse vital to my family's survival.  

Passing that running torch on.

My point is, everything I do, every single little thing in my life, every atom of every molecule of every cell in my body has been repurposed from living my life to giving them life.  

They are the sun to my orbit, responsibility ties me to them like gravity, and the intense love that pervades all aspects of our lives is the theoretical dark matter that holds us together.  My family is my universe.

The response is, "You shouldn't lose your identity when you become a mom."  I haven't.  It has enhanced me.  In teaching them to be individuals, I model individuality.  But even the simple act of making sure to be "me" everyday is aimed at creating proud and unique adults out of the children in front of me.  How am I supposed to talk about something different, but relevant to my life, when the fabric of my existence is 100% intertwined with theirs?  The only thing I can do is stay silent.

And come on.  Who DOESN'T want to see pictures of something this stinkin' cute?

Ok, fine.  I'm partial.  But you post pictures on the daily of your food, your pets, your cars, your alcoholic beverages, your house, your plants, your clothes.  You post pictures of things that are important to you.  Sorry, nothing in my life is as awesome as my kids, so I've got nothing else to show you.  That is, unless you want to see a picture of my Nightmare Before Christmas nesting dolls or my halloween shelf in the kitchen.  We want to present the world with what we believe is representative of the most important bits of who we are.  That happens to be my daughters.  They have shaped me into who I am right now, and we will continue shaping each other into our future selves until the end of our time, and I pray that we will leave a legacy that inspires our children's children's children to be the best they can be as well.

Continue the AWESOME future great-grandbabies!

So, no, nonparents.  I don't feel like you have any ground to stand on when it comes to complaining about what we're doing with our kids.  There's a "hide from wall" function on Facebook, there's a polite way to step away from conversations you have no interest in, and if you want to discuss what you will NEVER do as a parent, then consider having that talk with your friends who also don't have children if you don't want to hear how your lack of real perspective might be skewing your opinion in a certain direction.

As for me?  Don't friend me on Facebook, because I think I'm going to go post some pictures of my toddler in her diaper and hair all disheveled with chocolate adorning her flushed cheeks.  Because it's freakin' cute, that's why.

The Systematic Torment of Mothers Everywhere

Here's the scenario:

New mom.  Baby is still little, fresh, sweet-smelling; "bundle of joy"?  Still applicable.  The congratulations cards are rolling in, work isn't calling yet, inquiring as to your return.  Visitors are filtering through in the afternoons, and they bring little bags of goodies for mom and baby.  Among those, you can always expect to get a few books.  You know the ones.  "Love You Forever", "Guess How Much I Love You", "Someday", "You Are My I Love You".   The ones not even the most level-headed of parents (sometimes nonparents, too) can get through without a bit of weepiness.

...and I am your "I'll give you something to cry about!"

But these aren't given to the moms with the exasperating three-year-olds or the self-sufficient sixteen-year-olds.  These are given to the new moms, in most cases.  The ones with the hormones spilling over the brim of their sanity cup like a damn waterfall, drenching everything within a radius of ten feet.  It could just be me (Me, sensitive and dramatic? Lies.  All Lies.) but this is undoubtedly the WORST thing to receive at the one time (or more, depending on number of children planned.  or not planned.) when your emotions are completely out of the range of reason and well into "spontaneous combustion likely" territory.  You already cry at the diaper commercials, the baby shampoo commercials, the episodes of Baby Story that remind you so fondly of your pregnancy (which you probably hated, but that's in the past and it's a fuzzy, distant memory).  You're packing away maternity clothes and missing your belly, you're sad that intimate connection to your baby is gone; now you have to share her with everyone else.  You're wishing you had enjoyed the moment when you were in it, every moment, of every day, of those nine months.  Then someone is going to hand you a book describing in eloquent and vivid prose how fast time flies and how those sweet babies are going to grow up and move away and leave you alone with only their crap filling your storage space to remind you of them (because they'll never call), alongside these fracking baby books?  What the hell?

One of the top ten offenders, in my opinion.

Who the hell is writing these books?  They either have nerves of steel or never had to experience the heart-wrenching horror that is letting your babies get older.  And we can't only read them once.  God no.  We keep going back to them, opening them up out of nostalgia, or amnesia, or whatever.  There's a word for doing the same thing again and again and expecting a different result each time...  It's torture, pure torture, and we're some special kind of crazy for putting ourselves through it year after year.

I got this gem for mother's day, when N was 4 months old.  It's hidden and I refuse to open it ever again.

Not only do they create mass hysteria among mothers everywhere, but then we promise ourselves, SERIOUSLY this time, I'm never going to let another day go by that I don't cherish this little miracle I was blessed with.  This time!  We say.  This time, I'm going to march right into her room, hug her tight, run around the park with her for five hours after which we'll walk hand in hand down to the store to get some ice cream.  Then we'll cuddle together under blankets and watch movies until as late as she wants, because these days are going so god damn fast and I can't stop them and I need to be immersed in HER for every moment of every day possible.

Yes, when the wind blows just right, even THIS makes my mommy-emotions wig out and the tears come.

But then...it's quiet.  It's too quiet, you think.  So you put down the stupid I'll Love You Forever, or whatever you foolishly grabbed off the shelf, and peek around the corners.

.......*lots of expletives*

Yeah, you should've put the Easter egg dye a little higher.  All recollections of mortality and your deep, unfaltering adoration for said child is temporarily cast aside while you scrub the floors, and her face, and her hands, and soak her clothes and wipe the walls...only to resurface the next time you spot that book, and you will.  These things have a way of popping up everywhere, in any room you might be in at the time some divine power decides you need to be reminded.  I think that quality must be magically imbibed in the pages via some sorcerous printing press.  Because make no mistake about it, these books were written for the sole purpose of tormenting moms across the world.

So next time a baby is born, do mom a favor.  Do not bring her something like:

Instead, consider a more accurate depiction of what's in store for the next decade or so, something that won't cause her guilt at feeling ungrateful and gift wrap something like:

Lamenting Little Girls?

Something strange happened to me the other day.  I don't mean strange as in, "Gee, that's never happened before."  Contrarily, I've gone through this conversation many times in the relatively short time that I've been a mom.  Rather, it was strange in the, "Why would anyone say that?" kind of way.

A woman, a mother of three BOYS, was asking me about my kids.  I tell her I have three daughters and...she apologizes!  Not sympathizing because she has three of the same gender too, but specifically pitying me for having girls instead of boys.  It wasn't the first time and I know I'll hear it again someday.  Why are we, in a society trying to promote gender equality across the board, feeling bad for people who have daughters?

What message is this sending?  I'm far from being a feminist, but I can see how this is a problem.  How are we going to make little girls feel strong and proud and on level ground with boys if we are going to hold this archaic mindset that boys are the coveted sex?  And who says having little girls means I'm living in a world of pink and tea parties and princess movies on a loop?

More snails and puppy dog tails than sugar and spice, I'd say.

It's one thing to want a little bit of a change from what you're used to.  I admit I might've mentioned once or twice hoping that little W was a boy.  The first day or two I might've even been slightly disappointed (but that's a completely different story.  post-partum hormones are a nightmare).  Today, I couldn't imagine things any other way, just as I assume a mom of three boys would say.  When people would approach me and say, "Now you need a boy."  Or "Sam, you need to have a boy.  You NEED a boy in your life," I'd ask them why?  Are all girls so similar and so stuck in their gender roles that they won't be interesting and multi-faceted enough to "allow" me a diverse parenting experience?

Hardly.  

I have a princess.  I have a basketball player.  I have a mommy's girl.  And in each of them, I have more than what you see on the surface.  Like every other human being on this planet, they have layers to their budding selves and who knows what they'll be a year, five years, ten years from now.  I encourage what they love, from stereotypical girl all the way to "tomboy".  In fact, growing up I was the farthest thing from being girly, which I attribute to being raised by a dad and a grandpa, and only brothers.  They made me tough, they made me strong, which girls are very capable of being.  Today, I split logs with my dad, I enjoy fishing, I will wear a dress and even enjoy it in the proper setting, I am learning how to make hair "pretty" and I can change a tire. 

....learning, I said I'm still learning.  There's a curve, people.

Am I expecting a rocky patch while they are teenagers?  Of course.  I remember how moody girls can be, not necessarily because I gave my own parents a hard time, but because I was friends with a few girls in school (I apologize to any high school friends reading this.  But you can't deny it).  And just as I differed from other girls at 15 and 16, I'm sure one or two of my daughters may slam doors and cry at the drop of a hat, and the other(s) may be a breeze.  No matter what, I hope that they feel free to express themselves in whichever way suits them best, just as I would if they were boys.  

Make no mistake about it.  That tear is less emotion and more calculated manipulation.

So if you see us making our way through Target on some random Tuesday, don't throw me that pitying look.  Don't come up and ask if we're going to keep trying for a boy.  If you want to ask them their names, how old they are, compliment A on her dress, smile and coo at W or marvel at N's counting skills, feel free.  But don't feel bad for me because I have daughters.  I don't feel bad.  

Remember, someday this little girl will have your little boys wrapped around her finger; she will take over the world one heartbreak at a time.  Or on her own merit.  Who knows?  They will destroy all expectations of them based on gender roles, and I will watch the surprise of the unsuspecting and laugh and laugh and laugh.

Momma Has Superpowers

There are the things society in general understands about being a mom:  It's not glamorous, it's rewarding, we all have different kids who need different things, all that, whatever.  But there was one thing that genuinely surprised me, the epiphany came to me during the all-elusive-shower-without-small-people-playing-peekaboo-with-the-curtain.  Mainly because crawling ON the shower curtain was the biggest spider I've ever seen.  (I am prone to exaggeration, but for the purposes of our story just imagine this beast was two inches across, hairy and saliva dripping from his poised fangs.  Yeah.  He was.)

This is why I quit recycling.

Ok, follow me if you will...

On a typical day I will run and cry like the pansy I am in the face of spiders, centipedes, bats and bees.  I've gotten used to earwigs due to all the wet piles of leaves around my house.  Boxelder Bugs?  Childs' play.  But there's just something about the inside of my house that attracts the creepy crawlies that I CAN'T handle.  I scream, and I scream loudly.  Usually my husband, with a deep sigh, a slow shamble, and an exasperated expression will come to my rescue (Imagine his surprise the night it was a bat.  That'll teach him) and squish whatever is threatening my very existence with its menacing presence.

He has ruthless insect-killer written all over his face, right?

But sometimes, once in a rare great while, he's not there.  This is a problem.  When I considered what I would do if cornered with a baby in my arms by some man-eating creature, I'd sweat.  One day, I was forced to find out.

N was a baby, and a little baby at that.  (She was never truly a little baby, but this is neither here nor there.  She'll always be my little baby.)  I had her on the floor, changing her diaper.  For some reason I hadn't grabbed a blanket to put her on, so she was directly on the carpet.  I was happily chattering to the girl who was unamused and waving her arms and legs about her wriggling body.  I'm surprised I noticed it, it blended in so well with the carpet.  But like they seem to do when you're unprepared, this sucker was running at a mile a minute straight towards my precious baby's head.  HER HEAD.  There was no blanket he could crawl under, he was aimed straight for her cheek and I was sure that if he made it to his target he'd bite and surely he was full of neurotoxins that would take a short route straight to N's brain, leaving her paralyzed the rest of her life.  I didn't think.  I just acted.

I smashed that b!*#$.  With my bare hand.

One of these.  They're everywhere in this house.

Now, faced with the prospect of dying a slow death at the mercy of this fresh foe perched on my see-through shower curtain (he was on the other side of it.  But it doesn't matter, because as we all know they will either bite through the barrier that separates them from you, or they will defy the laws of physics and pass right through).  The look on his face said he was out for blood, no doubt seeking revenge for the ruthless slaying of his spider sister.  Or mother.  Or father.

I flashed back to that day, the day I had no fear.  The day I didn't even have time to grab a stray sheet of paper.

When I'm a mom... I have superpowers.

That's right.  When staring down what you fear most of all, if your kids are in the same room you react without thinking, you don't have time to be afraid.  I will use whatever part of my body I have to, in order to eliminate the threat, I will act swiftly and my force will be deadly.  And on the occasions where I do have time to be piss-my-pants scared, I don't show it.

I solemnly swear to rip apart centipedes and grind spiders into the tile in order to protect you.

Take, for example, the wasp-on-the-wash incident.  At that time it was just A; her and I were driving home after work on a muggy June day.  My husband was running late, by an hour, and still had several hours before he'd be on his way home.  I was on the phone with him grumbling about the given situation, parked by the garage in the back, when I spotted it.  It lazily buzzed about the clothesline where the morning's wash had been hung, then turned and whizzed past the car window, doing a sort of loop.  I whispered to my husband, careful to not let A hear me, couldn't you please just come home really quick and help us get into the house? (He worked half an hour away.)  Just quick drive home! I pleaded.  No.  I took a few deep breaths, turned the radio up and pretended we were waiting for this "awesome" Justin Bieber song to be over (I'm sure she was suspicious).  I gained my composure and took my toddler by the hand.  I led her straight through the treacherous path of the flying beast.  Somehow, we made it through unscathed, but I still have flashbacks, nightmares...

I like to imagine this was the same wasp I evaded.  And this really did happen.  Fail.

I'm guessing in the case of larger threats, the bad-ass-mom reflex will simply be stronger.  Luckily I haven't had to find out.  And of course being a superhero in the presence of your children comes with other minor superpowers that aren't as badass (I can tell which one needs the diaper change based on scent even though my sense of smell is typically non existent, I can hold an infant and simultaneously bend down to lift up a toddler without pause but prefer not to lift more than two shopping bags if my husband's arms are empty, I can silence a tantrum before it even begins with a sideways glance but once the tantrums are in motion I hand them off in less time than A takes to start whining in a clothing store), but in those rare life-or-death-by-insect moments...

I'm supermom without spandex and a cape.

For the Socially Awkward Moms

Here's to waiting in the car during preschool pickup until you see the right backpack at the door.

Here's to spending playdates sitting in the corner uncomfortably smiling at the other moms and kids, trying to think of something witty and interesting to say.

Here's to not sweating their grades but demanding the teacher tell you if they have friends.

Here's to over explaining things in terms that are way beyond a 6-year-olds comprehension.

Here's to sticking your foot in your mouth after every social interaction with the other moms.

Here's to hoping your weirdness doesn't affect your child's relationships.

Here's to incessantly clarifying with your husband if what you said on the phone to the other mom was acceptable.

Here's to talking to your 2-year-old as if she were an adult.

Here's to being perplexed by the things other people get excited about and only figuring it out when you're driving home.

Here's to sweaty palms and a mildly elevated heartrate before walking into school functions.

Here's to having to fake it.  Every time.

Here's to hiding behind your camera, phone, iPad, whichever technological gadget you choose.

Here's to writing and rewriting emails to the teacher more than ten times.

Here's to staying absolutely silent when people come up in public and talk to your obviously-too-young-to-respond baby.

Here's to turning to your husband more than once and asking him if this is something normal moms do?

Here's to panicking that people consider your non-traditional parenting style to be "bad" parenting.

Here's to kind of, sort of, just a little bit enjoying your eccentricities.

Keep being weird, my friends.  I'm sure we're in good company.

And here's to proudly passing just a little bit of that weird on

Ugly Babies

(**Disclaimer**  I love my kids.)

Everyone says it:  There's no such thing as an ugly baby.  I'm sure it's the P.C. bend in the road our culture is following and don't get me wrong, I'll never say anything in front of my kids about it but...

It's a lie.  There are ugly babies.  I gave birth to two of them. 

Before they were born, in fact during my first pregnancy, I was told frequently that I'd find my baby to be the most beautiful baby in the world.  At first it held true; I cradled her in my arms and thought, "There's no possible way a more beautiful child has ever been born."  It took me a few months, I'll be honest.  Maybe it was the hormones dying down, but I still remember where I was, what I was doing and when the conversation happened to cause me to face the truth.  It was my dad that broke the news to me; I remember we were driving home from a doctor's appointment, a follow-up to a short hospital stay.  She was three months old, it was cold and drizzling just enough to get the windows wet but not so much that the wipers could do a decent job.  The snow was still piled up in the parking lots even though patches of grass were starting to peek through.

I told you.  I remember everything.  About.  That.  Conversation.  

"I saw that picture..." He says, with a chuckle.

"Oh, the one where she's on her belly, looking up at the camera?"

"Yeah, that one.  HA!  She looks like ET!"

"........"

"She looks just like a little alien with that giant head and those big eyes."

"........"

An alien.  He likened my baby to an ugly, wrinkly alien.

Ok.  He was right.  She was pretty goofy looking.  She had (and still has) those big eyes that took up half of her little face, a broad forehead and no hair to balance any of it out.  Not to mention her size; her eyeballs had to have accounted for at least 1/4 of her body mass.

When I finally fully accepted this as truth, she was older and much cuter.

She was finally catching up to those eyes, though she still has aways to go.  Today she's drop dead gorgeous (see earlier posts), even if I am biased, it's true.  Trouble is, she knows it as well as I do...

N has been a beautiful baby from the get-go.  I'm pretty sure it's a survival mechanism; if she were as strong-willed and defiant as she is AND as strange looking as A was?  Well... survival of the fittest, in a less civilized culture of course, might not have tolerated such madness.  When she screams like a banshee, runs away and then flashes the cheesy smile, cooing "Hi mommy!"....just how in the hell do you expect me to discipline this child?

Imagine my surprise, then, when pulling from the same two DNA pools yielded W.  Today, she's madly adorable; her charm has a lot to do with it.  She's quick to smile and laugh at and with anyone in her line of sight. She's a snuggler and a watcher and a giggler and an awesome sleeper.  But, for a while there, before she started those social smiles and interactions, we were pretty concerned. 

She looked JUST like Winston Churchill when she furrowed that brow!

Pretty much immediately we knew she was good natured, we just didn't know how supremely amazing she'd be.  It all balances out.  It's ok to think they're goofy looking, it doesn't make us bad parents.  It's fascinating to see them grow and change and observe their features molding every day into what their adult faces are going to be.  It makes them beautiful.  

I'll never tell her, or the others, my opinion on the "cutest", but I did realize something that brings me back down to Earth pretty damn quick.

The two that most resemble me... were/are the strangest looking of the three.

It really hit home the night my husband and I were discussing little W's new nickname (Winston).  I remember everything about that conversation, too.

"She'll be the one with...you know...nice eyes.  Such a great sense of humor!!"

He said the same things to me when we started dating.

Why Do You Want To Be a Mom?

(Remember earlier when I said I would only rarely get heavy?  Now is one of those times.)

Yesterday while running (see: walking very quickly) I thought fondly back to the decision making process before getting pregnant with #2 (Let's call her N).  I remember a few years back, before having the "Is it time?" conversation with my husband regarding a second baby, I took one of those "Are you ready?" internet quizzes...because, you know, I like to base all my major life decisions off the results of internet quizzes.  It threw a question at me that I sincerely had to think about, and for quite a long time.  I'm still considering that question today.

Why did I want to be a mom?

At the time, my answer was much different than it would be today, and I probably didn't even have an answer with #1 (We'll call her A).  The answer varied from year to year, depending on the very unique time in my life that each of my very unique daughters came.  In fact, they weren't all the best times, and if you asked me BEFORE the two lines popped up on that little stick (20 times, just to be sure) I might've even said I wasn't convinced I DID want to do it again.

Let's start with A.  It was 2005, I was 18 and I knew everything as most 18 year olds do.  I was neither financially secure nor emotionally secure.  To put it bluntly I was a bad person.  It is what it is.  I wasn't ready for a child despite constantly trying to convince those around me that I was.  Alas, I did fall pregnant, and due to some poor choices ended up single and dependent on my father.

Why on Earth did I want to be a mom?

It didn't matter.  She came, healthy and lovely on one snowy December day.  Something snapped in my head, all the problems, all the mistakes I'd made, every person I disappointed, it all faded away the moment she cried that first time.  Her tiny presence in the room felt enormous to me, and when they placed her little 7 lb 2 oz person atop my chest, she took my breath away.

The question changes, you see.  It isn't why do I want to be A mom.

Why do I want to be HER mom?

I didn't deserve that perfection, all wrapped in pink with a bow glued on her head.  I cried for days and days.  Nevertheless, she became my anchor to the world, my purpose, my "You can do better than that."

Fast forward several years later.  I met my husband when A was 6 months old.  She loved him just as much as I did and we married when she was two, he adopted her at age three.  When she turned four, we knew it was time.  Afterall, the internet quiz had deemed it so, remember?  We had jobs, security in our relationship, we were happy.  We had a house and a nice car.  We could afford a pricey car seat.  I had a job where I could bring my children along, so I had plenty of time to spend on a new baby.  We were ready.  So for the first time, we actively tried to get pregnant.  As it turns out, "trying" for us was as easy as a suggestive glance in the same room.

The test came back on a snowy December day, two lines.

I so badly wanted to be THAT baby's mom.

Losing that life was a lead weight atop my chest where he should've been laying; it took my breath away.

What did I do to deserve this?  Everyone around me were getting their positive tests, and we had to lose our first together.  We were ready, the internet said so.  I was a better person, I had become better for A.  Why wasn't I good enough for V?

I cried for days and days.  I still do.

So it happened that a few months later, after a firm decision to cease and desist with the baby making, that N's two lines popped up.  I knew early and I knew without a question.  Peeing on a stick was merely a formality.  A rocky pregnancy coupled with the understandable fears of a mother who had just recently been forced to say goodbye left me exhausted and emotionally drained every night. Each day I asked myself, how could I possibly love another baby?  And every morning I prayed to whoever would listen to let me keep my baby for just one more day.

Why did I want to be a mom?

It didn't matter.  She came on a snowy day in December, two weeks late.  The moment she was born into her father's hands, scowling and already unimpressed with the world, I felt a weight come off my chest.  Every day for nine months, she had taken my breath away.

Why did I want to be HER mom?

Because of her, I learned patience, hope, faith.  I learned to let go of things outside of my control.  She taught me that you don't lose space in your heart for more children with each one that is bestowed upon you, there is no limit to how much love you have for your babies and that only grows tenfold with each one that comes.

Even though she cried for days and days (and she still does most of the time), I cherish every single minute I spend with her raging little self.

Much too shortly after the hurricane N arrived, I had a funny feeling.  I couldn't be sure, but I crossed my fingers for the opposite to be true.  You see, recently two people I loved had lost their first babies.  One of them only a few weeks prior had announced, very cautiously, another pregnancy.  The two lines came up on a chilly morning in May.  My life was already filled to the brim; work outside the home at a new job, school three days a week, two other children who demanded my attention whenever I had the time to devote it to them.

Why would I want to be a mom, again?

There were others more deserving.  Others with more time than me, more resources, someone who hadn't yet been allowed to experience the soul shaking love that is your very first child.  This was not my time.  Could not be my time.  I cried for days and days before finally breaking the news.

A picture perfect and predictable pregnancy yielded us precious W.  She came on just the right day, cold and dark, in January.  There was very little work involved in her entrance to the world, and as I held her peaceful countenance against my chest, she took my breath away.  (Quite literally.  I had some seriously uncomfortable issues with trying to breathe.)  She never cried until she left my arms when I needed to stand and move to the bed.  Her breaths were deep, her skin pink and flawless.

Why did I want to be HER mom?

Over the short time she has been with us, she has shown me just how strong and resilient I can be.  As with the others, once she was here the question was no longer if I wanted to be a mom or why.  The question became, could I possibly live without any single one of them?  They complete me, but not in that "there's a void in my life that I hope a cute little baby can fix" kind of way but in the kind of way that when two whole people come together in love they become something immeasurable, something greater together than they were apart.  Each of my children has driven the potential of what was a simple life higher and higher, because in love anything is possible.  To have someone I'd give my life to protect has been so powerful, and when I allow myself to be consumed by the emotional vastness of it all, it's almost too much to handle.

No matter what the answer is at this or that point in my life (or any other mother's, I imagine), the simple fact stands:

It's not that I want to be A mother.

I want to be THEIR mother.

I was meant to be their mother.

And that takes my breath away.

Lightening Doesn't Strike Twice

I love first-time moms.  Love to hear their enthusiastic and optimistic predictions of how motherhood will be, so full of hope, vim and vigor.  They've got a plan, damn it, and their flawless execution of said plan will naturally yield THE perfect child.  I am not mocking you.  I.  Was.  You.  And to hear you talk, it brings me back to a simpler time; a time when I only had two grey hairs; a time when all the baby clothes were hung ever so neatly in the closet and folded in the proper drawers; a time when, my first born still tucked away inside, I just knew she would be amazing and wonderful in every single way.  She was going to be funny, gorgeous, smart, obedient and always happy.  (Three out of five ain't bad, right?)

But even more fun than that?  The moms who've had their first, been blessed with a seriously awesome specimen of baby, and who can't possibly understand all the hoopla of how difficult it is to raise children.  I listen with sincere fascination, I do not mock you.

I.  Was.  That.  Mom.

You remind me fondly of a time when things were calm, happy, and there were only tears once every few days.  A time when I looked upon other mothers with confusion and maybe just a little bit of judgement (I am NOT proud. But I am honest.)  Seriously guys?  How hard can this be?  (Don't worry, karma is having its way with me.)  For her first five years she was quiet, happy, smart, funny, gorgeous, and the worst punishment she ever faced was a time out.  By God, did a time out set this little girl straight.  Up until about age five, she was amazing.

Whenever I wonder why I thought more kids would be nice, I just look back at this sweet little thing.

I can't be sure whether it was the arrival of her sister that triggered it, or if we were always destined to meet the child she would turn into.  No matter; there was no possible way I could've been prepared for what came next.  As I brought this thing into the world:

Yes, that face does indeed express her desire for world domination and chaos.

....the elder decided it was time to throw tantrums, put on her sassiest sassy pants and master the art of eye rolling.  Concurrently, the screaming sweet, crazy cute, wild wonderful baby we welcomed into the world spent 10% of her day happily sleeping and the other 90% frustrated and mad that there was no way for her to rule the world from her bouncy seat.  I was stunned.  How could mommy-hood go from being only ever rewarding and great fun to...so much work!  

#1 decided she would only eat chicken nuggets and macaroni and cheese, even if I followed through on every threat to send her to bed without eating at all, she persisted.  In comparison to #2 who will not even sit at the table without emitting ear piercing shrieks in protest to any food that is not a fruit or a cookie, #1 was STILL a walk in the park.  Even their tantrums can't be measured by the same yardstick.  In response to all my gloating and boasting, I was given the most difficult child you will ever have the pleasure of meeting in addition to the warping of my "easy child" into a dramatic, flailing, back-talking little beast.

That isn't to say you moms of one are gloating or boasting, not at all.  But if ever you DO chuckle to yourself about the mom who can't get her kid to eat a veggie/go to bed at a reasonable hour/buckle into the car without pitching a fit, remember... if you decide to throw together a jumble of DNA again, it's a game of Roulette, and if you're as lucky as me, you'll end up with one of these:

This isn't to say she doesn't have her good days and that I don't love most everything about her.  When I'm in a sane and logical place I say to myself, she's strong-willed and her ferocity will get her anything she wants in life; she will never settle.  #1 is dramatic and sassy but that's what makes her pretty amusing and hilarious to listen to.  These things about them that drive me up the wall are what defines them as individuals and will develop into traits later in life that will be quite useful and I need to be thankful they were blessed with such uniqueness.  I'd like to believe it's my ability to reason in such a way that I was shown mercy with #3...

She smiles with her entire little self.

...but this isn't me letting my guard down.

Oh hell no.  I'm fully aware of what that leads to.

Road Rage: Mom Style

I'm pretty sure I figured out why more women are actually dying from heart disease than men.  Yeah, there's the whole more men suffer from heart disease and so we watch them more closely during their preventative check ups for the warning signs thus ensuring when it happens they're prepared and we aren't.  But consider this...

Today, driving to my monthly (should be weekly but I digress...) child free coffee date with my 11-years-long-coffee-drinking-buddy, I was cut off by some dude on an empty highway. He had plenty of damn space to either pass me like any other reasonable driving age human being in this country, or simply drive in the fast lane meant for people who are rushing to their destination and allow me to chill in the slow lane  where I'm relishing in dragging out the trip as I sing along to songs with swear words and loud guitars.  I prefer rocking out to screaming German men, not screaming babies.  

But no.  He was your stereotypical dude wearing his sunglasses in very overcast weather driving a little red something or other that probably had leather interior no one has ever spilled chocolate milk on.  I'm guessing he probably uses the word "Bro" at least once a day.  He speeds up beside me and swiftly switches back into my leisure lane much less than one car length in front of me and out of my driving mom habit, instead of raising my middle finger or yelling expletives, I held it in and sighed. I felt my blood pressure rising, heart rate increasing, all in the interest of not being the swears-like-a-trucker mom in front of the children who typically occupy the backseat.  Mommy road rage: the pent up kind making the air inside the mini van dense and dripping with discomfort that eventually the kids pick up on and their tendency to act up at the worst times kicks in because the moms-already-super-pissed threshold has been reached and it's in their nature to see if critical mass can be achieved.  Or at least that's what I'm convinced is occurring.  I'm going to call this extra-auto road rage.

Then what I call intra-auto road rage  begins.  The kids' naughtiness is triggered by sensing moms anger reaching the threshold, thus forcing mom to intervene between fighting and screaming and begging and whining and crying children, wreaking havoc on her cardiovascular and nervous system; vessels are dilating and the neurons in her parasympathetic pathways are simultaneously fighting the effects of circulating adrenaline while neurons in the higher brain centers are firing at break neck speeds, reasoning with her as to why she shouldn't pull over, call her husband to come pickup the kids and walk the rest of the way (critical mass).  Back in the day I always heard, "Don't make me turn this car around!"  I can't threaten mine in such a way; why would I offer them the entire drive back home with which to torment me?  

This image was taken in a parallel universe.  Such miracles are not of this world.

The pressure from holding in how badly she wants to smash in douchecanoes bumper is fighting outwardly against the pressure exerted from the children losing their damn minds inside the close quarters of the car. At some point one is going to give way and she will more than likely implode, collapse in on herself like a super nova in order to avoid terrifying her children into a future of therapists and medications to enhance said therapies.  

More than 18 years of this kind of stress would inevitably take the kind of toll on a person that a heart just can't take. And don't get me wrong, I'm sure there are plenty of dads out there battling the same stress; it's just that in my experience the dad is more prone to releasing the rage immediately and dealing with any consequences later (thanks dad, for teaching my 2-year-old how to say "f%$#ing idiot").

Save a mom, don't cut off the van with the stick figure family (or Dr. 9 with rose) especially if there's more than one stick figure child (or weeping angel) because as most of us know the pressure exerted on mom goes up exponentially with each child she's saddled blessed with. 

Because if I have to add one more to the back window, I'm never leaving the house again.

Or if you do pull up next to her, hell bent on finding out just how close you can make that lane switch before causing an accident neither one of you wants, pray that she's not the mom who has already hit her threshold and who may reach critical mass much faster; she may explode, resulting in thousands of dollars worth of damage to your car and to your person.  

On a more positive note, has anyone heard of anti-road-rage?  Is that a thing?  Like, "Hey man, I am so impressed by your use of turn signal and proper passing without five minutes of tailgating preceding it, that I would like to give you a thumbs up, instead of a middle finger."  Can we start doing this?  I think Minnesota would be the proper place to implement it;  you know, "Minnesota Nice" and all.  Here's to hoping the guy in front of me doesn't think I'm flipping him off...