When Edie urped an entire meal all over the brand-new outfit my mom and I had just put her in, I pushed away the disappointment that several ounces of milk was now dripping down the front of her onesie and my mom’s arm. I could care less about the extra laundry; I regretted the meal no longer in Edie’s belly.
Edith’s first time wearing ruffles and anything pink was short: Baby puke necessitated a wardrobe change.
I’m still trying to get over the feeling that my milk is in short supply. After almost two months of cringing through every minute she nursed, I saw each drop that she drank as a victory. We recently had another scare that she wasn’t gaining enough weight, which has me even more on edge.
I want to capture the drops that trickle down Edith’s chin after a feeding. I scrape out the fatty milk stuck to the sides of bottles like a kid licks the ice cream bowl clean so none is wasted. Seeing any milk spill, let alone cascading as spit-up, makes me want to dissolve. Thankfully, Edie Mae has spit up only about a half-dozen times since she was born.
The morning that Edie urped on her striped onesie, instead of ruing her volcanic reflexes, I laughed. Edie seemed unperturbed; she just looked at me with her signature serious face as the drool-milk pooled where my mom’s arm met Edith’s belly. When I got Edie to the nursery for a quick wardrobe change she smiled, too.
She didn’t care that spit-up had soaked through her clothes. Maybe she liked the feel of the fuzzy changing pad on her bare skin or the face-to-face time with her mama. As I slipped a pink and ruffled onesie over her head, she squealed and enjoyed the moment. I did, too.
One of the many benefits of spending so much time with Edie Mae is observing and interacting with her. I witness her firsts and the incremental changes in her development, personality and appearance. I love everything about my baby, but I’m partial to a few things about her.
She may have woken me up at 6:30, an hour and a half since she last fell asleep, but who could be mad at this face?
First thing in the morning, when the soft light of the day is just brightening the bedroom, Edie is alert and cheerful. She looks delighted to see me—”Oh, you’re here! Wonderful!”—and rewards me with the widest, silliest smiles. Lately she’s throwing gurgles into the mix in what I imagine will later become laughs.
We also spend this time playing. I bounce her around on my lap, swipe a blanket over her face in peekaboo and hold long conversations. (I gave her an anatomy lesson this morning—”And this is your elbow. It connects your upper and lower parts of your arm and lets it bend.”)
Edie is smiling more each time we swim in the bath.
Bath time is my other favorite activity. I take a soak most nights (the most welcome order from my midwife!) and after the water has cooled, Eric brings in Edie for her bath. Washing her squirmy and slippery body on my lap is much easier than in a baby tub, and she doesn’t cry. After all, she rests on my legs instead of on hard plastic, and she stays warmer.
To rinse her, I lower her into the water. Keeping her head dry, I move her forward and back. She looks a bit bewildered but happy—”What is this? I like it!”—as she floats on her back. Perhaps it feels like being inside the womb, or maybe it’s a glimpse into her future as an Olympic backstroke medalist.
Friends who first meet Edie swoon over her itty fingernails and soft feet, but I’m especially drawn to the tips of her ears. They’re dainty yet are covered in fine hairs. She’s my tiny hobbit. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised at her verve for food!
A full belly and a perfect belly button
My other favorite body part is her belly button. To start, it’s in the center of her round tummy that gets even rounder after a meal. The skin folds this way and that to create a unique pattern like the petals of a rose. The best part, though, is that it’s the site where we used to be connected. It’s the evidence that I once provided everything she needed. When I was pregnant, I did everything I could to ensure she was healthy and secure.
I hope that she admires her own belly button when she grows up. Whenever she feels sad or alone, she’ll have it as evidence that I still love her completely and unconditionally. Her belly button is proof that even though we’re no longer connected, I am always here for her.
Now that Edith is two months old, I think of her as a big girl. The changes that have happened in the last month sure seem to make it that way: She’s vastly different than 30 days ago.
Don’t worry, Duck fans: She has an Oregon onesie, too!
I vividly recall when the midwife placed Edith Mae, purple and screaming, on my chest immediately after her birth. How big and scary the world must have been. She was accustomed to her cozy, warm home inside me for 40 weeks; so much space, light and sound surely felt alien.
Edie is beginning to notice the toys on her play mat.
Now Edie wants to explore her surroundings. When we took a family walk the other night, she began to scream when Eric put her in the carrier. As soon as he took her out and held her, though, she quieted. She spent the next 20 minutes staring at the trees, the sky and the pattern of light filtering through the leaves.
A rare moment of zen when she’s on her back. Must be the dog hair toupee.
At home it’s much the same. About a week ago, she changed from a happy baby as long as she was being held to screaming unless she was carried face-out. And the view isn’t enough; the scenery must constantly change. I probably walk miles by pacing our two-bedroom apartment every day. And if that fails, I just take her out on the balcony. I don’t know if it’s the fresh air or the sound of cars going by, but this child loves the outdoors.
Snagging a few hours of extra sleep in the early morning
As she grows up and wants to take in the world, she spends much less time cuddled on my chest. I know it’s silly, but I miss her frog-legged snuggles with her head tucked just below my chin. So when she does fall asleep that way, I savor it. I don’t get any work done, but I’m past caring. (Usually.) Her head is the perfect distance for kissing, and I take advantage of that, too.
Who knew that Julia Child, who revolutionized the idea of the home cook in America, spent a good chunk of her young years rudderless?
I took on the challenge to #LiveLikeJulia for a week and adopted Rule #3, Learn to be Amused, from Karen Karbo’s new book Julia Child Rules. I expected it to include lessons in laughing at unfunny situations; instead, the chapter suggests we might be happier if we bided our time enjoying ourselves instead of constantly seeking self-improvement.
Julia Child spent a bulk of her 20s living at home with her indifferent father, hanging out at the country club and not knowing what to do with her life. Yet her diary entries weren’t filled with laments about her directionless lifestyle. “All I want is to play golf, piano and simmer, and see people, and summer and live right here,” she wrote. She might not have found a career or a mate or a passion, but she enjoyed herself while she figured it all out.
I, on the other hand, have always been driven. During graduate school, I taught undergrad classes, taught GRE prep courses and freelanced while staying dedicated enough in my coursework to earn the Kappa Tau Alpha outstanding graduate student award come graduation. My planner was full of lists; my schedule was micromanaged. The little down time I had was overshadowed by unfinished tasks.
Needless to say, I was a little stressed.
Now, as a mother of an infant, my daily accomplishments look a little different. Today, I:
Fed Edie. A lot.
Cared for Edie. This included letting her nap on me (she tends to wake up within moments of my putting her down, even in a swing), shushing her when she cried, changing diapers, narrating our every move (“And now we put your other arm in the onesie!”) and enough bouncing to get my butt into pre-baby shape.
Wrote this blog post. I do most of my typing one-handed on an iPad while I hold Edith.
Ate lunch. Yes, this counts as an accomplishment in my world.
Sometimes I stress about all the pitches I’m not writing, the projects I’m not working on and, of course, the fact that our floor hasn’t been vacuumed in at least a month. But there’s much pleasure to be taken in the miraculous ordinariness of motherhood
Rule #3 of Julia Child Rules was a good reminder of that. After finishing the chapter (while holding a sleeping Edith), I closed my computer. I brushed my cheek on the fine down that only partially covers Edith’s head. I noticed the lace-like pattern of veins on her eyelids. I searched for traces of myself and Eric in her features. I marveled at how huge her hands and feet look, compared to their size eight weeks ago.
Our tiny caterpillar is expert at sneaking an arm out of her snuggly swaddler. (Please ignore the week-old newspaper and dog-chewed popsicle stick on the floor.)
I did my best to push aside my mental to-do list. I didn’t set Edith down to crank out a story idea or put away dishes. I held my baby girl and felt her breath rise and fall on my chest.
Now is not the time when I make strides in my career. I never had a home clean enough for HGTV before, and I certainly won’t now that nearly every surface is covered in burp cloths and baby gear litters our minimal square footage. And that’s ok.
In fact, it’s more than ok. This is an irreplaceable time of our lives together. I want nothing more than to “simmer” here. I think Julia Child would approve.
This week, for the first time in Edith’s life, there have been times when nursing didn’t hurt.
I have to say it again because it still blows my mind.
Sometimes. Nursing. Doesn’t. Hurt.
For this I have to thank a clear slip of silicone called a nipple shield. It creates a bit of a barrier between me and baby’s croc jaws. It also has space at the tip for milk to pool a bit so she’s not inundated by my fast flow.
But I wouldn’t have asked for the nipple shield at my most recent (dare I say it—perhaps last?) lactation appointment if it weren’t for the women who read this blog and the women in my new moms group. You shared your stories, many of them similar to mine. You mentioned what worked for you without assuming it would work for us. And best of all, you offered love, support and encouragement.
Thank you.
There is so much judgment wrapped up in motherhood, both from myself and others. But I never felt judged in the comments you’ve written here and on Facebook. “We support you no matter how you feed your baby,” I heard again and again. Those were the words I needed when I felt as if I were sinking.
I haven’t wished Edith would just keep sleeping since we started using a nipple shield. (Well, except for when she wakes hungry in the middle of the night an hour and a half after I last fell back asleep. Who wouldn’t?) I no longer dread strapping on my nursing pillow, getting ready for that first painful latch and every suck after that.
Now when she nurses, I appreciate how her hand rests on me as she eats. I laugh at her appreciative food critic noises. (I swear sometimes she sounds like Bill Murray eating corn in What About Bob?) And I’m so grateful to have the opportunity to nourish my baby—who is thriving—the way I had hoped. After nearly eight weeks of struggling, this taste of hope feels so good.
Edie, our little peeper monkey, met some other animals this week: We took our first trip to the zoo.
Eric spent the trip helping a family we know look after their boys. (No one wants to see a little boy be dispatched by a lion or croc!) After he rushed off with them—they had already moved on from the mountain goats by the time I made it through the entrance—I wandered in with Edie.
As I pushed the stroller down the ramp to an underwater observation area, Edith began to scream. Her wails echoed off the concrete faux rocks that made up the cave. I sat down on a step, figuring it was as good a place as any to nurse her.
As Edith ate, I realized it was better: My impromptu feeding station had a view. An enormous sea lion swam in circles, sliding right up the glass where delighted children waved to it and posed for pictures. We were so close I could see its eye, slightly cloudy and rimmed with long lashes. That in and of itself made the whole adventure worthwhile.
This sea lion put on a show for us.
We later met up with a friend, Carisa, and her daughter. I was immediately grateful to have her help. Carisa pushed our stroller while I held Edith in a front carrier. She handed me a blanket to cover Edie with because I’d forgotten a sun hat (rookie mistake). And she watched my little girl when I ran to the café to grab a veggie burger (I forgot the lunches I’d packed in the car—another first-timer slipup).
We didn’t come close to visiting all the animals. A pack of wild dogs appeared in the enclosure in front of the bench where I happened to change Edith’s diaper, though, and we watched hawks and vultures swoop low over other zoo-goers during the bird show. We’ll leave the hippos, giraffes and polar bears for a future visit
Carisa and Mia entertain Edith, and vice versa.
The creature I most enjoyed watching was 3-year-old Mia. She delighted in showing me around, taking photos of the cheetahs and playing “tickle monster” on the lawn. She has such a fun personality that I couldn’t help but look forward to when Edith is big enough to explain rules of a make believe game or have favorite animals to visit.
I’m also learning about taking our Peeper out on adventures: I need to stash a sun hat in my diaper bag. It doesn’t hurt to have an experienced mama along to help and offer support. And, when I’m able, I’ll be choosing a cool, shaded place to nurse that has a view.
When Eric and I discussed names for our Peeper, Edith came up: A charming classic that would honor my great-grandmother. Edith Phelps was my maternal great-grandmother but we all called her Pretty Grandma. No one remembers why, but I imagine the name suited her just fine.
Pretty doesn’t do her justice: She was a beautiful person.
In the sixth grade, we all had to create a project on a poster board triptych for a fair. I chose to profile Pretty Grandma. I painstakingly pasted photocopied pictures of her onto the red butcher paper that covered the cardboard. I taped up letters that she had sent me. I displayed an antique stereoscope that belonged to her. On the big day of the fair, I stood by my display and watched as other kids and their families politely smiled as they passed by my project. My hand-lettered title and humble subject weren’t as flashy as the other kids’ work, but I was proud. Even then I knew that she was more important than popularity in a middle school gym. She was an amazing woman.
Pretty Grandma was gentle. I remember lying in her bed in my grandma’s basement surrounded by hand-stitched quilts. She read me Chicken Little—“The sky is falling! The sky is falling!”—before I drifted off to sleep. I felt safe and cozy with her.
Pretty Grandma was tough. She grew up on a farm in Illinois and raised her brothers and sisters. Her stepmother doted on her biological children but treated my great-grandma and her full siblings more like servants. I remember lightly stroking the nub of one shortened finger, evidence of how strong she was: She pricked it while sewing and her stepmother refused to call the doctor when it got infected. It had to be amputated later. She never complained about the stump or the mistreatment she suffered; hardship was a part of life for her, something to be overcome.
Pretty Grandma plays with my brother Bill, always a serious baby.
Pretty Grandma was patient. She taught me checkers and never refused a challenge from me. She let me watch Hollywood Squares, her favorite show, with her, even though I was much too little to understand any of the trivia.
Pretty Grandma was resilient. She lived to 106 years and was herself every day. She might not have had her original hair (I walked in on her taking off her wig one day; I was embarrassed, but I don’t think she knew—she had her hearing aid turned off) but she was nothing if not authentic.
Pretty Grandma was loving. She and I wrote letters—and later, when she got older, post cards (they were shorter)—back and forth as soon as I learned the alphabet. I told her about what was happening in my classes, scribbled notes when I was on vacation and asked about her days at home then, later, at the nursing home. She often quoted passages from the Bible; “This is the day the Lord has made; let us be glad and rejoice in it” was a favorite. It reflected her verve and gratitude.
Her letters were full of her passion for nature: She wrote about the changing seasons and the flowers she was growing and what she saw out her window. I couldn’t wait to read her latest message and my eyes pored over her looping and slightly shaky cursive, even though her letters seldom held much news. Her observations of what was blooming, the falling leaves and a snowy landscape were enough.
I hope that someday our Edie Mae will be as gentle, tough, patient, resilient and most of all loving as Pretty Grandma was. The world could use another 106 years of an Edith like her.
At the beginning of the week, I found myself in room 1 of the lactation clinic. Again. The nurses there started calling me a frequent flyer several visits ago. The other babies in the waiting area are teeny; they “graduate” and move on while Edie, at almost 7 weeks, and I still find ourselves in the remedial class.
Each time I go to the clinic, I hope that time will do the trick, that Edith and I will finally figure out how to successfully nurse. Every article and listserv and web site I’ve trolled say that breastfeeding shouldn’t hurt if you “do it right.” By that standard, we’re definitely doing a lot of things wrong.
More than two weeks after Edie’s tongue tie was treated, I still hurt every time she ate. I’ve hit so many walls when I simply want to give up yet somehow I continue. Edith is the reason I’m doing this: I want to give her the best food possible, and I want to be the one to give it to her. I swear she must know when I’ve hit my breaking point. After a miserable night with no sleep, she showers me with smiles and gurgles that make me vow to do whatever it takes to make her happy.
How could I not want to give her everything?
I thought the same thing when I was preparing for Edie’s arrival: I would do anything to ensure her healthy birth. Eric and I decided that would include having our baby without medication. The first part of labor was a breeze: Eric, my sister Amy and I took Finn on a long walk in the park. Once I got to the hospital, though, everything became much more serious. I vomited through much of it. None of the positions that we learned in birthing class relieved the pain. My labor was progressing surprisingly quickly for a first-time mom, my midwife said, but the contractions came one after the other with no relief in between. What’s more, I later realized, I was having back labor.
Finally, I looked at Eric and said “Durian,” our code word that meant that I really did want help and he shouldn’t try to dissuade me or tell me I could do without. So at 9 1/2 centimeters dilation, I got an epidural. It kicked in a few contractions later and I was ready to marry the anesthesiologist.
I rested for 45 minutes then the nurse next checked our progress. “I see hair!” she said. The epidural allowed my body to relax and dilate the final half-centimeter. What’s more, I finally fully effaced, and Peeper turned so she was no longer facing up—the cause of the back labor. 48 minutes of pushing later. I held our beautiful daughter.
“Giving up” and getting an epidural, which was nowhere in our birth wishes, turned out to be the best decision for Edie’s birth. I have no regrets about it.
Would throwing in the nursing towel be the same, or would I regret it?
I’ve had moments in the last few days that were absolutely miserable. Eric had to stand by helpless as I doubled over sobbing, clutching my middle, because I hurt too bad to feed our daughter. He had to choose between soothing Edith and consoling his wife. No one should be faced with that decision.
Another moment I fell apart because the cap to a bottle of my pumped milk wasn’t screwed on tight enough and it spilled when I tested its temperature on my wrist. I despaired over the hard work it had taken to get that milk and cried over its loss. I also felt terrible that I’d become so desperate that losing a half-ounce of milk could reduce me to a blubbering mess.
Then there were the times when I heard Edie start to rouse from sleep and an ugly part of me didn’t want her to wake up. I dreaded having to suffer through 20 minutes of a feeding. Worse than that pain was acknowledging what I’d been reduced to: someone who hoped her baby would just continue to sleep. That was not the kind of mother I want to be.
I haven’t given up completely yet. I’m pumping from the more painful side, which the midwife told me yesterday (at my eighth lactation visit, by my count) is infected and clogged to boot. I’m hoping the antibiotics and rest will allow me to heal enough that I can continue nursing.
If not, we’ll have to reassess and move forward on a plan B. Even more difficult will be loving myself as an imperfect mom who did what she could but reached her breaking point.
“Did you leave a candle burning?” I was cuddling Edith in bed and Eric was passed out next to me when I smelled something funny a few nights ago. Eric roused himself to investigate.
A few minutes later, half our apartment was filled with stinky vapor. Eric had found the source of the burning scent: a half-melted Tupperware lid inside the dishwasher. I had loaded and started it earlier (gasp! The new mom cleaned something!). I had put the plastic top on the bottom shelf.
I could blame sleep deprivation or mommy brain fog or the fact we haven’t had a dishwasher since I moved out of my parents’ house. But I think I made the mistake simply because that’s where the lid fit.
We opened every window, the balcony door and the front door to air out the apartment and faced the fans to blow air outside. Then we bundled up a sleeping Edie, leashed Finn and went outside.
Eric treated our impromptu nighttime stroll like an adventure but I was beside myself: Only five weeks in and I almost poisoned my family. One stupid mistake and my newborn was inhaling who knows what toxic fumes.
When the air cleared at home, we set Edith down in her cosleeper. She had slept through the whole ordeal. I, on the other hand, couldn’t sleep. What had I done? What sort of damage had I caused? What if we’d already been asleep?
I’ve always skewed toward the anxious worrier side of the spectrum, and I have a hard time letting myself off the hook. My stomach still drops when I recall mean things I said in middle school. If beating yourself up were a sport, I’d have medaled in the Olympics by now.
Eric tried to reassure me and pointed out that our baby was sleeping peacefully. Eventually I nodded off. And although the Tupperware was destroyed, no one else seemed to have suffered any lasting damage.
Since then I’ve thought a lot about that night and my reaction. I’ve realized that learning to be gentle with myself is harder than learning how to swaddle a baby or soothe her or make myself breakfast one-handed. Yet it’s perhaps even more important in becoming a good mama.
After all, I will teach Edith by my example. If I want her to learn to be kind to herself—and I do—then I must follow my own advice. That will be one of the most important lessons I hope to impart to her: Love yourself, and be quick to forgive yourself.
I’ll continue to read up on baby milestones and work on perfecting my swaddling technique. All the while, I’ll practice being a bit less critical and a bit more understanding to the mama I’m trying to become.
Babies have a way of making nearly everyone within a 20-foot radius melt: Strangers coo; friends gasp at every squeal; grandparents are reduced to tears. Along with the mushy outpouring have come meals, well wishes and gifts. All are welcome—in fact, I probably wouldn’t have eaten at all the first few weeks without the baked orzo, salad and enchiladas friends delivered to us.
The one thing I wish no one would gift us, however, is the cheery exhortation to “enjoy every moment.”
Perhaps it’s easy to wish us this because of the nostalgia that wipes out memories of the parts of new parenthood that are not Kodak moments or the fact that strangers usually see us when Edith is either sleeping or contentedly looking around the world. Regardless of why, though, it’s demoralizing to be told that I should love every second of my new life as a mom.
Peeper exercises her lungs. (And if you look closely you can see her tongue tie.)
In fact, I hate pumping. I fear that I’ll fall asleep and drop my baby when I try to lull her to sleep by bouncing on an exercise ball at 5:30 in the morning. My toes curl during the excruciating first minute of a latch while Edith demands that milk flow fast enough to splash her tonsils.
Does this mean I love my baby any less? I don’t think so.
I delight in naming every body part I kiss. (“I kiss your knee! I kiss your elbow! I kiss your other elbow!”) I think it’s hilarious when Edie poops on me during our bath time. I can stare for hours at her facial expressions when she sleeps, watching them change like the shadows cast on a landscape during a cloudy day.
I enjoy most moments with her, but certainly not all of them. One particularly crushing morning after almost no sleep, as I dissolved in front of a friend who has an 8-month-old, she nodded knowingly. “It’s ok to be in love and be miserable at the same time,” she told me.
That advice may not have the same Hallmark ring as “enjoy every moment,” but it’s a whole lot more useful.
