Becoming a good mom, one hour at a time
We recently returned from an epic vacation. We first flew to New York for a friend’s wedding then hopped down to Cat Island, The Bahamas for my brother’s wedding. We took Edie to the Museum of Natural History, into the pool for her first time, into the ocean for a few tearful moments and across her first international border.
But the memories we’ll most cherish are the ones made spending time with family.
The last month has been the least drama-filled so far, and I’m so glad for it! We don’t have a whole lot of sob stories about baby weight loss and mastitis, so yay us! High fives all around.
(I guess it says a lot if you count a month in which your dog tries to scratch off his entire face to be a calm one.)
Edie turns four months old tomorrow. She continues to become more alert, interactive and fun.
Nursing, balancing on one leg, bopping and petting my dog with the other foot: I definitely did not expect this when I was expecting.
Our dog, Finn, has been sick. After holding him in a bear hug to prevent him from scratching and biting himself all night, we took him to the vet. The catch is he gets anxious and aggressive at the vet to the point that he needs to be fully sedated in order for anyone to treat him.
The doctor thought he has a food allergy (probably to beef or chicken, which she said is more common than allergies to corn and wheat—who knew?) mixed with canine anxiety. A course of steroids, antibiotics and sedatives later, I picked up our pup.
He was locked in a kennel when I stepped into the back of the office. The moment he saw me, he wagged his whole body and scratched to be let out. I couldn’t get the damn door open and grew frantic trying to unlock it. Finally the vet tech helped me. I fell to my knees, holding and petting a whimpering Finn. “It’s ok,” I told him and tried—then failed—to not cry.
Finn clumsily stumbled up the steps to our apartment. At home, the sedative wore off, and he was back to what bothered him. His face was so scraped from incessant scratching that it looked as if he had gotten into a dog fight. A patch at the base of his tail the size of a deck of cards had been gnawed raw. He had hairless patches on his paws and legs from compulsive licking.
Thankfully my mom was in town helping with Edie. I couldn’t comfort my dog while taking the best care of Edie at the same time. My heart felt as if it were being squeezed in a corset every time Finn whimpered or cried. He lay on his bed, panting with his head lowered, the rest of the day.
Finn is our first child. Plenty of people roll their eyes when we animal owners refer to our pets as children, but for me it rings true.
We adopted Finn, then called Aaron, from a non-profit in California that rescued dogs on the euthanasia list at surrounding shelters. Eric had knee surgery a few weeks after that, so I was in charge of caring for a puppy who gnawed through library books and pulled baked goods off the counter. Caring for my first dog was frustrating but immeasurably rewarding. Finn slobbered and nuzzled his way into our hearts.
We had some challenges once Edie came. I no longer snuggled and pet him whenever he asked. For a few weeks, Finn would sneak a scrap of paper from the coffee table and eat it in front of me, just out of reach, when I nursed Edie. Or he snatched muffins from my bedside table and left only crumbs, not even the paper wrapping, to show for his crime.
Since then the whole family has adjusted. He lies half-on my lap while I nurse Edie now, and she’s paying attention to him. Finn jumps a little when Edith grabs a fistful of his fur, but he always sniffs her in her carseat whenever we return home. He licks her face and ears when she does tummy time.
As I type this, Finn is out at the park with Eric. He has been more of himself in the last 24 hours. I’m still hand-feeding him water (ask me about the difficulty of this sometime) but last night he ate for the first time in two days. He’s sleeping again and his face doesn’t have the drawn, harrowed look it did before.
Finn now doesn’t need to be stroked and held every minute of the day. But the episode left me feeling as torn up as his face looked. I felt I needed to give all my attention to both my baby and my dog at the same time. Doing both—like nursing, bopping and petting all at once—could last only so long.
I don’t have some lesson I’ve drawn for this. The next time it happens—and it surely will—we’ll be in the same impossibility of doing everything for everyone. And it feels like shit.
Until then, though, I’m excited to get back to our usual family dynamic, once Finn is feeling up to it. Edie misses her Finn kisses.
“Trick or treat!” My brother, sisters and I stood at a neighbor’s doorstep. My breath puffed tiny clouds as I eagerly awaited my treat. Would this bowl contain Butterfingers—perfect for trading with my brother—or Milky Ways? Or would it be a dud, filled with Smarties and Good & Plenty.
“And what are you?” the woman, silhouetted against the open door, asked.
“I’m a cheerleader!” I was frustrated at having to answer the same well-meaning question house after house. I had told my mom exactly what I wanted to dress as. A trip to St. Vincent de Paul netted a paneled skirt and Churchill High School cheer top. But I was bundled under a puffy coat, and sweatpants kept my legs warm. My mom had insisted I dress warmly, and no one could tell what my costume was.
I hauled my pillowcase to house after house, pulling in candy that my parents would dole out to our lunches, one piece a day, for weeks to come. I envied the other kids in their clearcut outfits and their plastic jack-o-lantern tubs. “Think of how much more candy you can carry in a pillowcase,” my mom would say, cheering us up.
We made or cobbled together our own costumes every year. We didn’t have a lot of money growing up, and sometimes I felt my cheeks burn at our makeshift outfits—especially when no one could tell what I was among the store-bought Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and mermaid Ariels.
Ironically, for Edith’s first Halloween, I felt guilty buying a costume. Granted, it was from Value Village, but I felt as if I were cheating a little by throwing on a zip-up romper and calling her a ladybug.
I think I judged myself a little for not crafting her something fabulous to wear. After all, I designed and created all the Halloween costumes in the October issue of Parents a few years back; couldn’t I do a fraction of that for my own baby?
As fall progressed, though, I didn’t find the time—or rather I filled the spare moments I had with things like picking up the house, playing with my dog or watching The Walking Dead. (For shame!)
On Halloween, a few hours before we were meant to arrive at a friend’s party, I found myself pawing through my craft bin for my glue gun. While Edie napped I made a last-minute effort to dress us up as a family and we went to the party as a trio of pirates. Granted, the extent of the crafting was gluing a plastic heart to a shirt and sewing in Christmas garland for intestines (Eric didn’t want to be a regular pirate; he wanted to be a dead pirate); most of the pirate-ness came from props. I was happy to do something creative with my hands, though. It had been months since I pieced together from unlikely materials; it had been a while since I made something.
We had a wonderful time. We ate too much candy and squealed every time a trick-or-treater rang the doorbell. Edie didn’t even protest over her skull and crossbones headscarf.
I’d call Halloween 2013 a success. It will be fun to see what Edith wants to be in the years to come. Maybe she’ll carry home candy in an orange pumpkin-shaped bucket or in a pillowcase. I’ll have to wait and see.
I hope to make her costumes in the future—but not because that’s what a good mother does; plenty of great moms score adorable outfits from the store. I want to make them because I enjoy it. It’s good for her to witness me losing myself in a project. When she sees me gaining the satisfaction of sewing scraps into a gorgeous outfit or gluing sequins just so, she will learn how satisfying pursuing a passion can be.
If you haven’t noticed, and the photos of bright foliage on Instagram or celebrations over pumpkin spice lattes haven’t tipped you off, it’s fall. This is my favorite season, and I’m thrilled to share it with Peeper.
For a week or so, Edie refused to nap unless I took her on a walk in the carrier. The habit pushed me outside twice a day and, luckily, the weather cooperated.
As she, Finn and I walked the neighborhood and nearby trails, I marveled at how perfect October in Oregon is: the crunching of fallen leaves, the sound of the wind clacking together brittle branches, the smell of burning wood, the warm sun and cool shadows, the orange cast to the light.
Eric and I took Edie to the pumpkin patch, too. My family and I went every year when I was growing up. My mom would stop the minivan next to the field and we’d scatter. Sometimes we would pick apples, too, and the fruit tasted even better when I was standing in the dappled sunlight of the orchard. Other times we would just sample the pie and cider at the check-out stand and fawn over the puppies that always seemed to be for sale.
At Edith’s first pumpkin patch visit, there were no rolly poly Golden Retrievers, but we did take a tractor hay ride to the field. Hundreds of pumpkins sprawled across the ground, and the blue sky contrasted all the orange beautifully.
We picked out our pumpkins, including a little one for Edie. We carved them a few nights ago.
Edie was beginning to fuss by the time we neared completion of the jack-o-lanterns. It was bath night anyway, so we decided to risk an all-out meltdown for the sake of a photo opp. Eric lifted her up and plunked her into the biggest pumpkin.
Instead of ramping up her cries, she calmed instantly. Edie smiled for our baby-in-pumpkin photos. Perhaps she liked the mooshy feeling of pumpkin guts between her toes.
That is what fall is all about: Indulging the senses. Whether it’s stomping through leaves, sipping spiced tea or wiggling your toes in stringy pumpkin slime, autumn’s opportunities to immerse yourself in the season shouldn’t be missed.
If you want to feel like your little girl is a lot less little, simply put her in a crib.
We made the transition from Edith sleeping in a cosleeper next to our bed to sleeping in a crib in the nursery rather suddenly last week. I was changing the sheet in her cosleeper when I noticed mold on one side of the mattress.
That was the end of that. We’ve had rough luck with mold here in Portland: We moved out of our last house when I was in the second trimester after we set out a few mold test kits and watched a colorful and varied array of specimens grow. Mold just wasn’t something we wanted to mess around with.
So that night, we got ready to put Edith down in the crib that had, up to that point, been just a landing pad for stuffed animals and laundered onesies that needed to be put away.
I didn’t feel ready. The decision to change her sleeping routine felt forced upon us. I had slept with her within an arm’s reach of me since she was born, and a whole room’s distance felt very far.
So that first night, Eric and I blew up the air mattress and slept in the nursery next to the crib. (I know. It sounds ridiculous. But still.)
Edie did great: She woke up at her usual time, and I nursed her in the rocking chair. She was unfazed.
The second night we slept in our own bed. I got up fewer than a hundred times to check on her, so I count it as a success.
Since then, the nursery bedtime process has become routine. She even naps in her crib—at least sometimes.
Edith is napping in the crib as I type this. When I sneak into the nursery to peek at her, she looks so much older than the newborn photos we have stuck to the fridge. She’s even busting out of the swaddle sacks we have. At the same time, she is a tiny bundled caterpillar in the wide expanse of mattress.
Unlike some parents I hear, I don’t want Edith to freeze at any stage. She’s growing, and that’s a marvelous thing to witness. As she reaches new milestones, I’m grateful to be here with her, in awe of this small—but getting bigger—wonder.
Crunch, crunch. The dry fall leaves gave way underfoot and rustled overhead at the Rooster Rock disc golf course. Eric threw his driver toward the basket and I walked along with him, nursing Edie as I stepped through the maple leaves.
The premise of this blog is that I’ll be an expert by the time I log 10,000 hours of mothering. Of course by that time Edith will have changed enough that I’ll need an entirely new set of skills, but I think it’s reasonable to think that I’ll go from being a complete noob to a reasonably competent mom in a year and a half.
The fact that I’m comfortable enough nursing that I can do it while walking a trail is an enormous success. I may not be great at everything, but I’m an expert breastfeeder!
I’ve nursed Edie while taking a walk with my girlfriends, grocery shopping at Whole Foods, walking Finn, making myself breakfast and even sitting on a tractor hay ride at the pumpkin patch. Gone are the days when I had to set a crying Edith down, strap on a nursing pillow, grab a second pillow to prop up the first and only then pick her back up to give her milk.
I was inspired by a friend who nursed her little one while standing up and snacking on tortilla chips. “Don’t mind my stomach,” she laughed about her bare midriff, but I was impressed by her mobility. I went home that evening and began practicing pillow-less nursing.
Now my Breast Friend pillow is stashed behind the rocking chair. I haven’t used it in weeks. Instead, I recline on the couch with my peeper in my arms—or, conversely, stand up to refill my own water. It’s liberating.
It’s also helpful when you have a fussy baby. Edie has a hard time eating when she’s overtired, so a few times a day I end up nursing her while standing and swaying. One particularly bad day I stood, swayed and bounced while feeding her in the bathroom with the light off, door closed and fan on. Yes, motherhood is that glamorous.
For months I struggled with anything related to feeding Edith. For a while I thought I wouldn’t be able to breastfeed her any longer.
I’m still learning. But it feels so damn good to get a win.
Pffffffth—I blew a raspberry on Edie’s bare belly. Pffffth—one on her cheek—pffffth—another on her belly—pffffth—again on her stomach.
After a few rounds, her smiles turned into the most sustained giggles she’s had so far. They made me laugh all the harder.
A few hours later, Edie was nursing when a school bus rumbled by the open window. The heavy chains that hang behind the tires crashed together as the bus turned the corner. Edie popped off and looked straight at me. Her eyes were big and round and searched mine. Her surprise was so complete that I couldn’t help but laugh again.
It had been a wonderful day. But Edie was so busy living every moment with abandon that she couldn’t be bothered with napping.
I knew it was coming. Later that night, she dissolved into meltdown mode. She cried but wouldn’t eat or sleep or play. I set her down on the bed to change my pants and the 45 seconds or so I wasn’t holding her sent her over the edge. She cried so hard that she was choking, and tears spilled out of her eyes.
I buckled Edith into her front carrier and got outside as quickly as I could. Within a few minutes, the bouncing rhythm of my step soothed her to sleep.
I, on the other hand, didn’t calm down as quickly. As I charged up the hill near our apartment, I stayed frustrated. I hadn’t been able to put Edie down for hours and my back hurt. I was mad at Eric for having to work later than expected. I felt terrible for slamming the door behind me when I stepped outside: The noise had scared poor Finn and I heard him barking when I walked down the steps.
I neared the top of the hill. The western sky was pink, and trees and rooftops stood out in black relief against the sunset. I remembered Edith’s giggles and the tiny “o” of her mouth when she was startled out of her nursing reverie.
The extremes of the day—first delight and hilarity, then frustration and hysterics—were as stark a contrast as the rosy sunset and shadowed skyline.
Most days with an infant are like this. Edith’s temperament changes from cheerful and gurgling to wailing in an instant, and she swings back and forth even more often than I change diapers.
The challenge for me, then, is riding the ebb and flow of her moods. It’s easy to get worked up when she’s screaming and nothing seems to calm her. But I want to be the kind of mother who stays flexible to meet the needs of a mercurial baby.
I was halfway there. When the usual rocking, shushing, bouncing, nursing and pacing didn’t calm Edith, I laced up my shoes and took her for a walk. And it worked. But I’d also acted in anger when I slammed the door.
Days with a baby are seldom equable. But maybe the raw-throated screaming makes me appreciate the giggles even more. Or maybe not. I’d probably love Edith’s laughs just as much if she were always calm. But she’s not. She’s a back and forth baby, and that’s ok. She’s my baby and I love all of her.
The other day I was cleaning the kitchen and came across photos I printed when Edith was just a week old. I put two of them up on the fridge—one of her sleeping in just a diaper, showing off the scab of her umbilical cord, and the other of her biting Eric’s nose when she was hungry. I look at them now whenever I open the freezer and marvel at how much our baby has changed.
Yesterday Edith turned three months old—a quarter of a year.
The last month has been a fun one for her development. Last week we had a play date with other mama-baby duos from our mom’s group. She spent most of the afternoon sleeping (a rarity) but must have been inspired by the other babies, most of whom are older. That night, Edith rolled over again and again during tummy time. She rolls in stages: first her top half slumps over, then her hips and legs follow.
Since then, she rolls at will. The freedom and control seem to have changed her antipathy toward tummy time. She’s also interested in the toys hanging from her play mat and—occasionally—in the mirror. Every so often she’ll look at herself and smile.
The best new development this month was Edith’s first laugh. When I change her diaper, we spend a few minutes hanging out while she’s on her back. This is the time she’s most talkative these days, and I love her cooing and gurgling. Her sounds crack me up, and I swoon for her grins. All my laughter must have seemed funny to her because she laughed, too! I haven’t heard a giggle since, but I can’t wait to make her laugh again and again.
Edie is now moving—rolling, perhaps?—toward new changes. She still loves to face out and look at the world. I’m learning that is her personality: She seems to want to meet new experiences head-on. I can only imagine she’ll encounter her next milestones with a smile—and maybe even a laugh.
Rain poured outside and flooded the streets of Portland, but inside a dimly lit tapas bar, four other ladies and I toasted to the upcoming marriage of one of my oldest friends, Rose. As I sipped a caipirinha, I boasted that I had showered, put on makeup and worn my hair down (for the first time since having Edie) for the occasion.
Another woman laughed. “Wow, you paint quite the picture of motherhood,” she said. I laughed, too. It says a lot about my newly altered life that I feel a need to take a selfie to document the rare night I wear earrings.
It got me thinking about what early motherhood looks like, and what new moms show, to those on the outside.
Saturday night during the bachelorette party, I did not mention that it took most of the afternoon to stop crying long enough to put on mascara. Edie hasn’t been gaining weight, and Saturday she barely ate. Every time she screamed against my breast sent me into a new bout of tears. I was sure I was doing something wrong. I resorted to nursing her while standing up and swaying; it calmed her just enough to eat for a few minutes at a time.
I kept the day’s travails to myself because I didn’t want to dampen the mood, but it’s more than that: I want to project the image of myself as the kind of mom who has her shit together (and can feed her child, for crying out loud).
Throughout Saturday, I wanted to bail on Rose’s party. I felt like a mess. When Edie and I have a tough day, I want to hole up at home. I leave my hair in a bun and stay in what Eric calls my Kurt Warner sweats (on account of the droopy butt). I tend to withdraw into a cocoon where it’s safe and warm.
When I’m feeling vulnerable, the last thing I want is to zip myself into something more form-fitting than an oversized t-shirt.
I don’t think I’m alone in this. I don’t usually see moms with tear-blotchy faces out in public. This is whom I do see: Moms wearing Lululemon pants meeting at the café to walk their kids in schmancy strollers.
We—the general we, the public—hear about the hard times of parenthood (diaper blowouts, sleepless nights, blah blah blah) but don’t witness them. It’s easy to fall into the mental trap of assuming that after the initial infant crash course, parenthood becomes a breeze.
Yes, the Ryan Gregory household runs much more smoothly than in those first few weeks. But just because we close our desperate moments behind an apartment door doesn’t mean they don’t happen.
Perhaps I need to remind myself that those yoga-toned moms at the coffee shop also let their crying echo against the shower walls sometimes, and that it’s ok for me to go out—and it may even do me some good—with or without tear-smudged skin.