baby Archives - pnw mountain mommy

Try Some Self Care, They Said

April 16, 2020

I woke up with a vision.

It was sunny, it seemed soft and inviting. Tulips were everywhere, our trees were parading their fresh green leaves around like it was Paris fashion week.

I. Was. Feeling. It.

So I made a grand pronouncement to my family:

“I will be taking my coffee on the deck.”

Everyone was impressed. They didn’t say they were impressed, but I could tell by how they reacted: Ben smiled with a mixture of hope and pity while he grabbed his coffee to go and headed to work. The Cub wailed about how he didn’t want to eat his oatmeal while simultaneously eating his oatmeal, and he couldn’t POSSIBLY go outside with me until he had eaten all of my eggs. The Bay Leaf smiled a big gummy smile and immediately had a blow out.

I was off to a great start.

Once the Cub had eaten all his oatmeal and his own eggs, and then eaten mine, he seemed open to the idea. Once the Bay Leaf had been changed, for the third time this morning, she also seemed game.

With my coffee still lukewarm, I struck out for the sun-washed wooden mecca of my perfect morning. It took three trips. First trip: the Bay Leaf’s baby quilt (handmade by my best friend Eryka who runs an amazing little etsy store which is currently dedicated to making masks instead of quilts). Second trip: My coffee mug and toys for continual baby distraction. Third trip: The Cub’s bike, and consequently, the Cub.

In my vision I sat on the handmade little quilt with my sweet bitty Bay Leaf. She would look up at me with frequent love and adoration, but would mostly just babble at her toys. In my vision the Cub jumped his bike off the little step on our deck and rode around in the sun, occasionally stopping to give me a hug and a kiss and tell me what an amazing mother and best friend I was. He’d offer to freshen my coffee, maybe bake me a scone. I would look out and see the top of Mt. Hood silhouetted in the morning light while I sipped my coffee and smelled all the cherry tree smells.

So, these things didn’t happen.

My coffee got steadily colder as I tried to keep the Cub from running over his baby sister. I waged a losing campaign to keep the Bay Leaf focused on her toys instead of trying to stuff pine needles in her mouth. I had to get up and wrangle Marmot who was barking at the neighbors (who, I’m pretty sure are convinced, I keep a rabid dog for fun).

Despite the often harrowing attempts at keeping the children from self-inflicted injury and choking, I did manage to sit in the sun for a bit. I got to watch the Cub scoot around on his bike and he asked me to take so many slow-mo videos of him my phone died. The Bay Leaf only managed to eat like… three pine needles and possibly an ant. Marmot, despite the ferocity of his bark and the fluffiness of his hackles, didn’t jump any gates and did get in a sun soak.

And I, in great swaths of seconds, managed to look at Mt. Hood and drink my coffee before tearing off after the toddler.

Was it my vision? I mean… no. But, it was nice. I did it. And I even got a kid-imposed workout in there too. Turns out my mom reflexes are still in tip-top shape. Ain’t nobody flying down a flight of wooden stairs on my watch.

Sending love from on top of the hill,

Writing Instead of Eating

April 6, 2020

It has been a year since I’ve written in this space.

A lot of things happen in a year.

Time, for one thing, has disintegrated into the stratosphere. Now there are two children instead of one. Two children who require constant observation. Except for now, right now, the baby is asleep and the toddler has been given my phone to play games for the duration of Bay’s nap. The typical nap duration for this particular baby is about twenty minutes on a good day, so, this writing will be short.

I’m writing instead of eating. I haven’t eaten anything yet today. I did have coffee (the most important part of my morning) and I did feed both of my children. Somehow, my own basic human needs got pushed to the side. I’m not hungry first thing in the morning because I’m busy. Both Ben and I are busy. He’s up with the Cub, I’m up with the Bay Leaf. Whichever one of us is up first makes oatmeal with blueberries for the toddler and coffee for us. Somewhere in the middle of that there’s changing diapers and the cub’s favorite show and feeding Marmot and making sure Marmot has his meds and then Ben has to head to work and here we go!

So, I’m writing instead of eating. I’ll eat when the baby wakes up. I’ll make myself something quick and easy for lunch while simultaneously spreading peanut butter and jelly on whole wheat for the Cub. I’ll dish up some veggie/fruit puree for the Bay Leaf to smear all over herself. That will be lunch. It will be a chaotic affair with laughter and messes and push back and impromptu dance parties. It will be, another lunch in quarantine.

I’m writing instead of eating because I haven’t written in a few weeks. I took a class, a writing class, with a bunch of very talented writers online for a few months. It was amazing. I wrote every single day. I wrote in ways I had never written before. One thing I learned was to come to my writing with nothing on my mind. Start typing whatever pops up and then go with it, follow it through the thickets and into the dark corners or the open spaces where the light pours through. Go in and keep burrowing until you tell your truth, whether it be mundane or earth shattering.

So, I’m doing that. I’m sitting here, listening to my stomach growl and writing my truth. Writing is one of my basic needs, and though it isn’t feeding my stomach, it is feeding my soul; trite but true. I’m going to let my son look at my phone for twenty minutes so that I can feed my soul. I’m sure a few parenting blogs out there would be scandalized.

Twenty minutes is not enough time to get into the vastness of the current climate. This shelter in place, this pandemic, this unease. There’s a heap of anxiety surrounding our lack of information. I have a sneaking suspicion that all of us will know people infected with this virus (I know two, and I may have been three), we may even know people who die. This is a time that will define a generation.

But there are bright moments. There are little corners I can sweep up and let the light in. As tiring as it is to have no break from my kids, I love my kids. Being together has been an eye opener on how much fun we have as a family. It’s not perfect. There’s screen time guys, and sometimes, a lot of it. But there’s also building little bmx tracks for toy bikes, there’s singing songs and making mac n cheese. There’s bouncing babies who giggle and running toddlers who can twirl and do a two-step.

I have been stepping up in a way I didn’t realize I could, until I had to. I’m crushing this constant parenting expectation without escape. I thought a week in I would be muttering to myself and eyeing my beer fridge (we have a beverage fridge full of beer, because, pandemic priorities) by nine a.m. Turns out? By nine a.m. I am elbow-deep in cardboard ramps and makeshift foam pits. By nine-thirty I’ve done two silly dance contests and paparazzi-ed my baby.

It’s not that bad, in fact… it’s pretty good.

I’m worried about my loved ones, may parents, my extended family.

But, with what we’ve been given? I’m pretty content in this moment, sitting at this computer, not eating, but typing. Giving myself the space for creative nourishment.

That being said, twenty minutes are up.

Time to grab a baby, feed my stomach, my toddler, and maybe try to wash a dish.

Sending love from on top of the hill,

A Laundry List of Little Things

October 7, 2017

There are things I used to take for granted. Things, that, were you to tell me would become beacons of hope, I would worry about my quality of life.

You know.

You know exactly what I’m talking about.

Here’s the compendium of motherhood’s tiny triumphs:

Coffee

Duh. We can all agree (or a lot of us anyway) that coffee is our new parental life blood and to be separated from our morning mug is to court psychosis and possible bodily injury to loved ones when they ask simple questions like: “could you grab <insert anything here> if you’re going upstairs?” or perhaps: “Good morning!”

A Shower

For some reason, I was under the impression that once my baby hit six months, I’d be taking a shower every morning like clockwork. In my sleepless, postpartum blur, I told myself that once my kid was half-way to a year, I’d be living that good smelling, non-greasy life. That… never happened. Sure, I can shower when he naps. He naps two-three times a day but the naps can be anywhere from 25-75 minutes and so jumping in the shower is risky. I’ve all but given up on shaving my legs or blow drying my hair. Also, those naps are precious. Typically, I have to choose between cleanliness or productivity. I could wash the yogurt out of my hair and the drool off my extremities, OR I could wash the dishes, OR I could try and meet a writing deadline. Typically, overwhelmed with choice and not sure which is the most productive, I end up on the couch eating leftover pasta and watching Project Runway.

A Beer

I appreciated beer before I was a mom, but back then a beer was a spontaneous, social thing. Now, the moment that kid is down for the night, I shuffle to the fridge and pull out a beer and take a deep breath while I pop the cap. When I tell you I enjoy that beer? I mean, next level enjoyment. That beer represents a very real distinction between baby time and personal time. I have a few hours between when Little Bear goes to sleep and when I go to sleep, and in those hours I tidy, I write, a lot of times I let my brain slowly drip out my ears while I futz around on Instagram. It’s my time, and my time is greatly improved with a hoppy little sidekick.

A Hobby

Remember that? It was something you did outside of work and family time? Like, a little project you did to pass the time. Don’t laugh. We actually used to have those. I recently decided to try picking that up again. Botanical drawing is something I find lovely and so beyond my capabilities. I can’t draw, at all, but that makes it more fun because I’m starting from the bottom with no illusions that I will actually have the time to get even remotely proficient until I’m sixty and my kids are out of my house. I started it three weeks ago… I think I’ve maybe sketched a dozen petals. In three weeks.

Reading

I used to be a founding member of a book club. I was a literature major. I prided myself on my ability to read every day and knock off books weekly. I realize that sounds like bragging, and I probably did brag about it back then. Yeah. Back then. Now if I’m lucky I can manage to read two pages in bed before my forehead is sandwiched between the text and drool is slowly being absorbed into the pages.

Sleep

I thought I understood my relationship to sleep. I thought a good night was getting eight uninterrupted hours. Now, if I get three hours in a row I feel like an absolute champion. If for some unknown reason my baby decides to sleep longer than that, I have to stop myself from signing up for an iron man I feel so good. The flip side to this, of course, is anytime my baby wakes up before three hours I turn into a sobbing shell of a person who can only rock back and forth while clutching a coffee mug and mumbling incoherently at the wall.

Comfy Clothes

Notice I didn’t say actual clothes. Comfy clothes are a completely different category and, I’ve decided, far more satisfying than traditional clothing. Why wear something with a button and a zipper when you could wear something with an elastic waistband made from angora rabbits, or spun clouds, or llama tummy fur. They’re not ‘pajamas’ because that implies you only wear them to bed. This is all-day baby battle gear. Since you’ll be covered in spit up, pee, splattered puree, and other unknown items, it’s really the only thing that makes sense. You’ll be gross, but you’ll be comfortable.

Partner Small Kindnesses

Your significant other lets you sleep in. Your significant other picks up some food on the way home for dinner. Your significant other makes breakfast. Your significant other tells you you’re looking nice that day. Any of these things before a baby would be gently appreciated. After a baby your significant other is a saint who has never been sexier than when they’re changing a diaper so you can drink your coffee while it’s still hot.

Free Time

I remember this being a fun, relaxed time, where I would fill it with whatever struck my fancy. Now when I’m given a few hours to myself I have no idea what to do. A family member offers to watch the baby for a bit and sets you free to… what? It’s maddening. I spend the first twenty minutes of freedom debating what to do and secretly thinking I should be taking this time to sweep the living room so my baby stops shoving dust bunnies in his mouth. Eventually I’ll settle on something but by the time I get comfy, I’m usually panicked I need to get back and don’t really immerse myself in the freedom. Freedom is now, apparently, terrifying.

Adult Conversation

I still haven’t figured out how to do that. Most of the time when I meet people without children, I stare blankly into their eyes and try to come up with some sort of topic that doesn’t involve weaning or nap schedules. Most of the time I am unsuccessful and watch as their eyes glaze over and they politely begin inching away.

It’s the little things… or maybe the lack of them. Onward and upward, parents. Just take it one, sleepless, lukewarm cup of coffee at a time.

Acknowledgement, it’s a thing.

April 23, 2017

There is something inherently isolating about the first time you become a mother. In the cosmic sense, we’re all one, motherhood blossoms a beautiful connection to your baby, you are part of the bigger maternal narrative… yadda, yadda. I mean, not like, dismissive yadda yadda because that’s actually all pretty cool, but not the point I’m trying to make here.

Isolation, let us all be clear, is not loneliness. I do not feel alone. I have a strong community around me that includes a supportive family, husband, motherhood tribe, and friends. However, even with all of that support, the isolation of motherhood is present and constant and I’ve found it takes a great deal of effort to connect with other moms. Trying to acknowledge this experience can often times feel very singular and separated.

Little Bear squawks in my ear and I explain how my entire life has become about our baby’s sleep schedule and how the four-month regression can just STOP IT RIGHT NOW before I go out for milk and never come back. Kidding, kidding… It clearly would be beer. I’d go out for beer.

The thing about a baby and his sleep schedule when it goes ass-over-tea-kettle is that it completely consumes your life. Motherhood itself completely changes your life in every conceivable way, but there’s something about the sleep… I literally spend my day looking at the clock and planning out the time I’m going to begin the process of putting Little Bear down for his next nap. Currently? My kid has six naps a day because he naps like a jerk and doesn’t sleep longer than thirty minutes so a nap every hour and a half to two hours is the only way I can seem to get enough sleep in him. My day has become a series of repetitions that involve trying to get him to fall asleep inside my house, because god forbid I go outside, where I can’t control the environment and a motorcycle wakes him up or a particularly high curb jostles him and one planned nap is out the window.

It got to a breaking point this past week where I felt absolutely helpless and incredibly depressed about my inability to coax him to sleep and my fear of messing up this tentative nap schedule I’d created. Big Radish had to explain that staying cooped up in the house all day, every day, so I could make sure Little Bear had six naps, wasn’t worth it. He also mentioned that it clearly wasn’t really doing anything since six naps seemed to have no influence on how much he was sleeping at night, which, just so you guys know, was and is, bupkis.

Sleep schedules and personal sleep deprivation aren’t the only thing that can create isolation, just general day-to-day activities can contribute to the experience. Before I had a baby, running errands would take twenty minutes if they were quick and close by. Now, if I get up the gumption to actually attempt them, it takes an hour just to get out the door between feeding, changing, packing the diaper bag, grabbing the car seat, and making sure I’m actually wearing pants.

I’m not the only one who feels this overwhelmed and isolated. Hell, just within my circle of mom friends (those who are new and those who are going through it for the second or third time) it’s a common topic of conversation. It’s nearly impossible not to be isolated when the majority of your time is spent keeping a tiny person alive and trying to make sure they get enough sleep. The only people I talk to on a regular basis (besides my hubby) are other moms through text messages, and most of the time it’s while holding my breath hoping my fingers tapping the phone wont wake my sleeping baby. I mean, texting is silent, but… things become irrational around the waking of your kid.

For example, the mailman is now my mortal enemy. Not because I have anything against him, but my dog does not like him, and if my dog barks, the nap is over. Ipso facto, the mailman and I have beef.

Even with all the support, there are some days I wish I could hear “you’re doing a good job” over and over again because saying it to myself just isn’t enough. A lot of times when I’m at home with my baby and I’m obsessed with naps and the feeding schedule it can just feel like no one really cares how hard it is. Going from a job in the public sphere to a job in the private sphere is extremely abrupt. When you work in the service industry you have a constant stream of feedback letting you know your work is appreciated. The dedication I had to my profession was reflected in monetary and audible compliments. People could see the hard work, the polish, the experience. When you move from a high-profile position to one that is even more important in some ways, the job of being a mom, the people who see your dedication dwindles down to your immediate family, and regularly the only people who watch me day in and day out are my baby and my dog, and they’re hardly tipping me based on performance.

I feel guilty that I want recognition for this job. My husband works long, long hours. He is basically the sole provider of income for our family which puts a lot of pressure on him. He currently just opened a restaurant and is still the head chef and partial owner of another. Yet, he is the picture of stoicism. The man doesn’t complain; he takes on all the hard work and gets it done. I… want to be like that. I sometimes feel like I hold onto hard, trying days, so I can tell Big Radish about them because if I don’t explain or, let’s be honest, whine, about how hard my days are then it’s like they never happened. No one else sees me, no one else will ever know how hard my days can be because no one is around to bare witness. I feel like if I’m stoic then it’s like saying this is an easy job, and, it’s not!

Little Bear is perfect. He’s adorable, he loves to smile, his laugh melts me, the way he lights up when he hears my voice… I mean, there’s nothing better. So, when I’m exhausted from no sleep and I feel like some days are just so hard, too hard, it makes me feel like something is wrong with me. I know I’m a good mom and I try so hard, but sometimes it just never feels like enough, and all the triumphs and tragedies of motherhood happen behind closed doors where no one seems to notice or particularly care that you’re covered in spit up and it has taken an hour to get him down for yet another nap, which, will only be thirty minutes.

I’ll leave you with this:

Feeling like you want acknowledgement is not only a real emotion, it’s a normal one. When your whole life goes topsy-turvy because suddenly your job is no longer primarily outside the house (and even if it is), it’s ok to feel like this is really hard. Sometimes you just need to say THIS IS REALLY HARD, or type it in a desperate text message to another mom friend (my friend Katie tends to get these texts like three times a day), because you’re exhausted. Guess what, you’re probably getting some stuff wrong, I know I am, but at least we’re all trying and we love our babies. Those two things, more than anything else, will get us through this.

Also, beer.

Love Letter to a Radish

February 14, 2017

As you may or may not know, for the purposes of this blog I have given both my son and husband a nickname in an effort to keep their lives semi private. I did this not because they asked, but because this is a blog from my point-of-view, and it seems respectful to allow them a little distance. But, let’s be real, I also did it because how cute are pet names? My husband, Big Radish, got his nickname due to his profession (chef) and the beautiful radish tattoo on his forearm (he has a lot of very nice tattoos, btw).

As I see the impending pinks and reds of Valentine’s Day approaching, I feel the need to say a little something about the fella I have chosen to spend my life with. Big Radish and I have been together for five years, and will have been married for two, come August. He is the epitome of what I need in a partner. The man is patient, has a sense of humor, knows how to calm me down with a rational mind which helps reel back my anxious-hypochondriac-worst-case-scenario mentality. He is a perfect counterpoint to my neurosis. He is also the kind of father who looks forward to coming home so much he can barely contain his excitement when he calls me from work to say he’s on his way. He lives for Little Bear and I, and if he could, he would get up every hour to feed our son if it meant he would be helping me out. Of course, as the one with the boobs, I save the interrupted sleep for myself.

I don’t mean for this to sound like bragging, except, it’s totally bragging. I find myself extra mushy because Big Radish is out of town for the next few days, effectively missing that oh-so-cheesy holiday. To be fair, we really don’t celebrate Valentine’s Day, as the whole thing seems a bit prepackaged and sappy (no offence, holiday-heeding lovebirds). However, it is not unheard of that we throw an extra ‘I love you’ or maybe an off-the-cuff nice dinner at home in observance. So, with him gone, I feel it a little more than perhaps I would have previously. Typically, both he and I would be working on Valentines anyhow, as for service industry folks the whole holiday is a bit of a cash cow. Though, let me tell you, it’s no walk in the park. I could go into a whoooooole thing about how trying to get the attention of people making googly eyes at one another is nearly impossible or How. Many. Fights. go down in public on this most gushy of days, but, I digress…

Big Radish is away on a boy’s trip with his best friend. They do this trip every year. The two of them meet in Denver and they spend a few days skiing and catching up. When I was still pregnant, Big Radish had inquired if it would be alright if he still went, and if I had any issue with the idea that he would skip the whole shebang. I told him of course he should go. We both agreed that one boys trip and one girls trip a year is completely reasonable. It is a way for us to reconnect to those people we love while simultaneously trusting our partner to take care of the baby. That sort of trust may not seem like a big deal, but it is.

This is the first time I’ve had to solo parent for an entire day and night. My mother-in-law has been kind enough to come down and keep me company for a couple days so it’s not terribly impressive on my end, BUT, last night was my first night that I was all by myself with Little Bear. It took a long time for me to finally get him down, and he was up every two hours, but you know what? I did it. I feel like a total bad ass wonder momma. When I told Big Radish about it I could tell he was proud but he also never had a doubt in his mind that I could handle it.

I had enough doubts for both of us.

But, I handled it. I didn’t just handle it, I really knocked it out of the park. I am capable of doing this. I am capable of doing this because I’m a good mom, even if I don’t know what I’m doing half the time. I’m a good mom because I have a partner who believes in me, supports me, and gives me the confidence to tackle these things without feeling like I’m flailing.

So, Dear Big Radish,

I love you. I miss you. I hope you’re tearing up those slopes and I hope you and your boy are having one too many beers and giggling (in a very manly way). I know you miss me, and you miss Little Bear, but we’re doing fine. We’re doing better than fine. I mean, he’s only peed on me twice and spit up down my shirt once, so…

Happy Valentine’s Day, you sexy piece of produce.

We Kept a Baby Alive for Three Whole Months!

February 6, 2017

See? Alive! That’s right! Sooooo alive!

We did it! We kept a baby alive for three whole months! And not only that, he seems to be doing quite well. I’m not going to pretend like it was all a perfectly natural, no hiccup experience. Not to say it hasn’t become second nature, because it has. My ‘new normal’ is getting very used to interrupted sleep, greasy hair, a general sheen of spit up on myself, my house, my husband, and my dog. However, mild sloppiness aside, you guys, we kept my baby alive for three whole months!

When we brought him home I was quite open about the fact that I was not qualified to have a newborn. I am an only child who grew up without knowing any children younger than me. I didn’t hold my first baby until I was twenty-eight, and the whole time I was convinced I was going to drop/break/scar him for life. But here I was, after an almost forty-eight-hour labor, followed by an emergency C-section. They handed me a bundled up Little Bear, I slid into the wheelchair, and Big Radish rolled me to the car.

Little Bear leaves the hospital.

The subsequent month was challenging… to put it mildly. Sleep disruption turns me, apparently, into a monster. Big Radish had to put up with a lot of snarky, half-asleep comments and grumbling whimpers. To his credit, the man was and has been an absolute rock. Without him I don’t even know how I would have made it through the beginning stages of this crazy journey. Breastfeeding hurt so much. For the first few days I wasn’t producing enough, and for the first week and a half I couldn’t latch him properly. What ensued was a lot of silent crying as I spent forty-five minutes trying to get Little Bear onto a nipple and then once he was finished eating I’d have about an hour before I had to feed him again. I dreaded it. This was not what I was led to believe breastfeeding would be like. I got so irritated when people would tell me ‘I think he’s hungry’ or ‘looks like he could use some milk’! Because I knew it meant another agonizing hour trying to get him to latch and then trying to bear the pain of his firm little jaws snapping down to feed. Not to mention, I would leave to feed him in the nursery, effectively keeping myself isolated to figure it out in a haze of exhaustion, frustration, and a pervading sense of failure.

But, like everyone always says, it gets better with time. I also had an excellent one-husband-cheer-squad. Not to mention the benefit of a full month of help from my in-laws and parents. That being said, those first two weeks when people would say by the second month everything would be a lot easier, I thought there was, absolutely, no way I was going to make it that long. My nipples ached, I wasn’t sleeping, my hormones were insane and I dreaded feeding my child or picking a fight with the equally tired Big Radish. But, they were right. I met with a lactation consultant, my milk came in like gangbusters, I figured out how to latch him on the first try, my nipples toughened up, and my hubby praised me constantly for my relentless effort. Those first two weeks were the scariest two weeks of my life. I didn’t think I was cut out to be a mother, I was so afraid my husband and family thought so too. But I started getting the hang of things. Little Bear didn’t need as many feedings, he started sleeping longer, and we started feeling each other out.

Fast forward to today. Little Bear is three months old. You guys, I kept a baby alive for three whole months. Now? We have little routines, little moments that we share, little looks and coos and touches that speak to a growing sense of familiarity and fondness. I’ve created little games for his expanding mind, I read to him every day, and we dance around the house instead of doing the dishes. This has been the craziest quarter of a year I’ve ever had. And I don’t just mean in the sense of motherhood. I mean, I became a mother, I watched an election go horribly wrong, I started writing again, I became addicted to my morning cup of coffee, I allowed myself to be vulnerable, I cried, I raged, I leaned on my husband more than I ever had, I surrendered, and I became who I am now.

Who am I now? I’m a mom, a child co-creator, and an environmental educator to my kiddo and those kiddos I can reach through this medium. I worry, I laugh, I fear for the climate in this country and I mean that in both senses of the word. But here we are! Three months! Little Bear is a bundle of health and exploration, and I’m a bundle of coffee, the occasional beer, a good podcast, and a whole bunch of dance moves.

Here’s to the next three months!

We snuggle… a lot.