What a nice read. I have to agree, there are those days when it seems to never end but when you look back after, those long and tiring days suddenly seem brief and trivial. When I had my firstborn, I felt exhausted all the time. I felt bounded by his needs all the time. I absolutely had no time for myself. And now that he is a toddler with endless energy, things are still pretty much the same-still dead tired from running after him, but I am slowly beginning to understand my role in his life. I recognize the fact that he is growing and needs me now more than ever. Now that I have my second child, things are more different. Perhaps being a mom for the second time around has made me more at ease and confident to take on the mom role. My experiences has made me stronger-more ready and equipped to handle absolutely anything. While hubby and I are contemplating whether this will be our last one already, I am putting all of my personal needs in the back seat for now so I can give them all of my time and savor each moment when they need me the most.
'Mommy, Somebody Needs You'
by: Megan Morton
Ever since we brought our new daughter home, her older brothers have been the first to tell me when she is crying, whimpering or smelling a little suspicious. "Somebody needs you," they say. I have no idea how this little saying started, but at first it sort of annoyed me. I could be enjoying a quick shower... "Mommy, somebody needs you. The baby is crying." Or, sitting down for a second, quite aware that the baby was beginning to stir from a nap.... "Mama, somebody needs you!" OK! I get it already! And not to mention that the newborn's needs pale in comparison to the needs of two little boys. Somebody always needs a snack, a band-aid, a different sock, ice cubes in their water, a NEW Paw Patrol, a stream of snot wiped, a hug, a story, a kiss. Some days never seem to end, and the monotony of being "needed" can really take its toll. Then, it all started to hit me, they need ME. Not anybody else. Not a single other person in the whole world. They need their Mommy.
The sooner I can accept that being Mommy means that I never go off the clock, the sooner I can find peace in this crazy stage of life. That "Mommy" is my duty, privilege and honor. I am ready to be there when somebody needs me, all day and all night. Mommy means I just put the baby back down after her 4 a.m. feeding when a 3-year-old has a nightmare. Mommy means I am surviving on coffee and toddler leftovers. Mommy means my husband and I haven't had a real conversation in weeks. Mommy means I put their needs before my own, without a thought. Mommy means that my body is full of aches and my heart is full of love.
I am sure there will come a day when no one needs me. My babies will all be long gone and consumed with their own lives. I may sit alone in some assisted living facility watching my body fade away. No one will need me then. I may even be a burden. Sure, they will come visit, but my arms will no longer be their home. My kisses no longer their cure. There will be no more tiny boots to wipe the slush from or seat belts to be buckled. I will have read my last bedtime story, seven times in a row. I will no longer enforce time-outs. There will be no more bags to pack and unpack or snack cups to fill. I am sure my heart will yearn to hear those tiny voices calling out to me, "Mommy, somebody needs you!"
So for now, I find beauty in the peaceful 4 a.m. feedings in our cozy little nursery. We are perched above the naked oak trees in our own lavender nest. We watch the silent snow fall and a bunny scampering across its perfect white canvas. It's just me and my little baby, the neighborhood is dark and still. We alone are up to watch the pale moon rise and the shadows dance along the nursery wall. She and I are the only ones to hear the barn owl hooting in the distance. We snuggle together under a blanket and I rock her back to sleep. It's 4am and I am exhausted and frustrated, but it's OK, she needs me. Just me. And maybe, I need her too. Because she makes me Mommy. Someday she will sleep through the night. Someday I will sit in my wheelchair, my arms empty, dreaming of those quiet nights in the nursery. When she needed me and we were the only two people in the world.
Can I enjoy being needed? Sometimes, sure, but often it is tiring. Exhausting. But, it isn't meant to be enjoyed every moment. It is a duty. God made me their Mom. It is a position I yearned for long before I would ever understand it. Over a three-day weekend, my husband couldn't believe how many times our boys kept saying, "Mommy. Mommy. Mommy!" "Are they always like this?" he asked, not able to hide his terror and sympathy. "Yep. All day, everyday. That's my job." And I have to admit that it is the toughest job I have ever had. In a previous life, I was a restaurant manager for a high volume and very popular chain in Palm Beach Gardens, Florida. A Saturday night at 7:30 p.m. with the expo window overflowing with dishes, a two-hour wait and the electricity inexplicably going out has got nothing on a Tuesday, 5:00 p.m. at the Morton house. And let me tell ya, South Florida diners are some of the toughest to please. But they are a cake walk compared to sleep-deprived toddlers with low blood sugar.
Once upon a time, I had time. For myself. Now, my toenails need some love. My bra fits a little differently. My curling iron might not even work anymore, I don't know. I can't take a shower without an audience. I've started using eye cream. I don't get carded anymore. My proof of motherhood. Proof that somebody needs me. That right now, somebody always needs me. Like last night...
At 3 a.m. I hear the little footsteps entering my room. I lay still, barely breathing. Maybe he will retreat to his room. Yeah right.
"Mommy."
"Mommy." A little louder.
"Yes," I barely whisper.
He pauses, his giant eyes flashing in the dim light.
"I love you."
And just like that, he is gone. Scampered back to his room. But, his words still hang in the cool night air. If I could reach out and snatch them, I would grab his words and hug them to my chest. His soft voice whispering the best sentence in the world. I love you. A smile curls across my lips and I slowly exhale, almost afraid to blow the memory away. I drift back to sleep and let his words settle into my heart.
One day that little boy will be a big man. There will no longer be any sweet words whispered to me in the wee hours. Just the whir of the sound machine and the snoring husband. I will sleep peacefully through the night, never a worry of a sick child or a crying baby. It will be but a memory. These years of being needed are exhausting, yet fleeting. I have to stop dreaming of "one day" when things will be easier. Because the truth is, it may get easier, but it will never be better than today. Today, when I am covered in toddler snot and spit-up. Today, when I savor those chubby little arms around my neck. Today is perfect. "One day" I will get pedicures and showers alone. "One day" I will get myself back. But, today I give myself away, and I am tired and dirty and loved SO much, and I gotta go. Somebody needs me.
Tuesday, November 4, 2014
Friday, October 31, 2014
Superhero Mom
I found another good article about motherhood. Hmnn..I think this blog is turning into a compilation of articles about motherhood, which I cannot help but post because it exactly mirrors my sentiments. When all the kids are grown up, it will be nice to have something to look back on and reminisce on this roller coaster ride called motherhood.
My child is here, but my body is still not my own
by: Katherine Dykstra
One afternoon as I nursed my son in the glider in his bedroom, I felt a stabbing sensation and looked down to find that the nail on his pointer finger was implausibly sharp –the tiniest awl driven into my chest just above my right breast.
The pain was more acute than the burning milk blisters on my nipples and more immediate than the dull ache that had inhabited my upper back since I’d begun spending all my time curled around my baby’s body — the star to my crescent moon.
I did not unhook his finger from my skin. I did not move. I barely breathed. For the first time in what felt like days, Arlo’s eyes were closed — giraffe lashes shut against petal-smooth skin — and I would bleed out from the chest before I would wake him. His pinning me in place like a bug was the beginning of a realization that my body, despite the fact that his was no longer inside of it, was still not mine.
As I’d prepared for Arlo’s arrival (as if anyone can really prepare), I was told that after I gave birth my life would change in every way. I was told that my love for my child would shock me, that my relationship with my husband would be tested, that I’d be surprised by those friends who would support me as a mother and those who would disappear. But not one person mentioned that motherhood would be the greatest physical challenge I’d ever been presented with.
I was reasonably fit pre-pregnancy. I went to spin class a couple times a week; I did yoga. I live in New York so I walk everywhere. But I also spent whole evenings on the couch, and have a weakness for ice cream and dinner out and one more glass of wine. I was someone who could not gracefully pull herself from a swimming pool, stand up without pushing off from the ground. Still, though I might not have been described as athletic, I did not think of myself as weak.
The assault began with the nausea that had me staring dog-eyed at my computer willing myself not to vomit when Arlo was but multiplying cells and DNA. It continued with the incredible feeling of stretching and growing, of his body inside me rolling over, fists and feet socking organs that had never until then been touched, and it culminated in labor. The feeling that overwhelmed me in the moments after I gave birth was not one of love or of calm — though I felt those things. Instead, much more intensely, what I felt was astonishment: “I can’t believe I did it. I can’t believe I did it,” I murmured, dazed, to my husband, as the doctor pulled needle and thread, the metallic scent of blood, my blood, in the air.
In the months that followed, dozens of times a day, I got up and down off the floor while holding Arlo. I lifted him from his crib, from his carseat, from his bath. I went without sleep, food, drink. I carried his stroller up and down the subway steps. Coming home from the grocery store was its own special challenge. I trudged the three blocks to our apartment with the diaper bag slung over one shoulder, plastic bags of groceries in either fist pulling my arms taut, Arlo on my chest in the front pack. There, at the gate that secures our building, a gate I had trouble pulling open before Arlo was born, I juggled the bags, finagled the key from my pocket, and somehow got it into the lock without dropping it or banging Arlo’s head against the door, heaving it open, every muscle screaming.
I don’t carry him in the pack anymore, but somehow as a toddler it’s even harder. He hits me when he’s excited, tugs on my hair, pulls off my glasses, grabs at my necklace. As he climbs me, his little feet find organs from the outside in the same way he did when he was on the inside. He runs from me, struggles out of my arms, throws himself bodily on top of me.
One punishingly hot July afternoon, long before I got pregnant, a friend and I were walking down the boardwalk by the beach in New Jersey. A family with two children approached from the opposite direction. The kids were whooping with joy and running this way and that as the mother called out to them, “Straight line! Steady pace!” She looked like a pack mule with bags hanging off all her appendages, a stroller before her. “That looks so hard,” my friend said. I was carrying my own bag; I had a towel thrown over my shoulder. There was a blister working into the bottom of my foot, drops of sweat on my upper lip, and a singing in my bladder that would need to be addressed shortly. These few things seemed all I could handle in that moment. What this woman was doing didn’t look hard; it looked impossible.
When I was five months pregnant, I met a mother who told me that the big secret of parenthood was that the moment one has children one becomes a super hero. “Bam!” she said, dead serious. “Just like that.”
I’d laughed at the time, but now, a mother myself, I see that she was right. Part of the reason we are able to meet these challenges is bundled up in that shocking love we feel — we are able to do things we never thought we could because we want to make life comfortable for our children. But we are also able to do them because we get stronger as our children grow. When Arlo was born, he was 7.15 pounds. I have picked him up dozens of times a day, every day, since then, and now at nearly 24 pounds I still lift him. I got faster as he learned to walk and then run, and more lithe as he has learned to throw and kick and grab. Being a mom is its own training.
I also realize now that the feeling I had after giving birth was more than astonishment, it was one of power and of strength, it was the same feeling I get when I wrestle the gate open, lift Arlo down from the jungle gym, hold him over the bathroom sink so he can wash his hands while not crushing his legs with my body nor allowing him to get ahold of the toothbrush holder, the toothpaste, our face wash. I will continue to nourish Arlo with the stuff of myself until he is 18 years old, longer if he needs it, and I will be stronger for it.
There is also a flip side to the continuing bodily assault — the incredible physical sweetness: for me it’s the softness of the bottom of Arlo’s feet, the spring of his doughy thighs, the warm swell of his stomach, his downy head, the back of his neck. It’s his breath like butterfly wings on my shoulder when I rock him to sleep. It’s his hugs — he rests his head on my shoulder, relaxing into me, cupping my biceps with his palms. It’s his kisses — his wet mouth open against my cheek. “MMMaa,” he says, leaning back and smiling, knowing he has done something good.
My child is here, but my body is still not my own
by: Katherine Dykstra
One afternoon as I nursed my son in the glider in his bedroom, I felt a stabbing sensation and looked down to find that the nail on his pointer finger was implausibly sharp –the tiniest awl driven into my chest just above my right breast.
The pain was more acute than the burning milk blisters on my nipples and more immediate than the dull ache that had inhabited my upper back since I’d begun spending all my time curled around my baby’s body — the star to my crescent moon.
I did not unhook his finger from my skin. I did not move. I barely breathed. For the first time in what felt like days, Arlo’s eyes were closed — giraffe lashes shut against petal-smooth skin — and I would bleed out from the chest before I would wake him. His pinning me in place like a bug was the beginning of a realization that my body, despite the fact that his was no longer inside of it, was still not mine.
As I’d prepared for Arlo’s arrival (as if anyone can really prepare), I was told that after I gave birth my life would change in every way. I was told that my love for my child would shock me, that my relationship with my husband would be tested, that I’d be surprised by those friends who would support me as a mother and those who would disappear. But not one person mentioned that motherhood would be the greatest physical challenge I’d ever been presented with.
I was reasonably fit pre-pregnancy. I went to spin class a couple times a week; I did yoga. I live in New York so I walk everywhere. But I also spent whole evenings on the couch, and have a weakness for ice cream and dinner out and one more glass of wine. I was someone who could not gracefully pull herself from a swimming pool, stand up without pushing off from the ground. Still, though I might not have been described as athletic, I did not think of myself as weak.
The assault began with the nausea that had me staring dog-eyed at my computer willing myself not to vomit when Arlo was but multiplying cells and DNA. It continued with the incredible feeling of stretching and growing, of his body inside me rolling over, fists and feet socking organs that had never until then been touched, and it culminated in labor. The feeling that overwhelmed me in the moments after I gave birth was not one of love or of calm — though I felt those things. Instead, much more intensely, what I felt was astonishment: “I can’t believe I did it. I can’t believe I did it,” I murmured, dazed, to my husband, as the doctor pulled needle and thread, the metallic scent of blood, my blood, in the air.
In the months that followed, dozens of times a day, I got up and down off the floor while holding Arlo. I lifted him from his crib, from his carseat, from his bath. I went without sleep, food, drink. I carried his stroller up and down the subway steps. Coming home from the grocery store was its own special challenge. I trudged the three blocks to our apartment with the diaper bag slung over one shoulder, plastic bags of groceries in either fist pulling my arms taut, Arlo on my chest in the front pack. There, at the gate that secures our building, a gate I had trouble pulling open before Arlo was born, I juggled the bags, finagled the key from my pocket, and somehow got it into the lock without dropping it or banging Arlo’s head against the door, heaving it open, every muscle screaming.
I don’t carry him in the pack anymore, but somehow as a toddler it’s even harder. He hits me when he’s excited, tugs on my hair, pulls off my glasses, grabs at my necklace. As he climbs me, his little feet find organs from the outside in the same way he did when he was on the inside. He runs from me, struggles out of my arms, throws himself bodily on top of me.
One punishingly hot July afternoon, long before I got pregnant, a friend and I were walking down the boardwalk by the beach in New Jersey. A family with two children approached from the opposite direction. The kids were whooping with joy and running this way and that as the mother called out to them, “Straight line! Steady pace!” She looked like a pack mule with bags hanging off all her appendages, a stroller before her. “That looks so hard,” my friend said. I was carrying my own bag; I had a towel thrown over my shoulder. There was a blister working into the bottom of my foot, drops of sweat on my upper lip, and a singing in my bladder that would need to be addressed shortly. These few things seemed all I could handle in that moment. What this woman was doing didn’t look hard; it looked impossible.
When I was five months pregnant, I met a mother who told me that the big secret of parenthood was that the moment one has children one becomes a super hero. “Bam!” she said, dead serious. “Just like that.”
I’d laughed at the time, but now, a mother myself, I see that she was right. Part of the reason we are able to meet these challenges is bundled up in that shocking love we feel — we are able to do things we never thought we could because we want to make life comfortable for our children. But we are also able to do them because we get stronger as our children grow. When Arlo was born, he was 7.15 pounds. I have picked him up dozens of times a day, every day, since then, and now at nearly 24 pounds I still lift him. I got faster as he learned to walk and then run, and more lithe as he has learned to throw and kick and grab. Being a mom is its own training.
I also realize now that the feeling I had after giving birth was more than astonishment, it was one of power and of strength, it was the same feeling I get when I wrestle the gate open, lift Arlo down from the jungle gym, hold him over the bathroom sink so he can wash his hands while not crushing his legs with my body nor allowing him to get ahold of the toothbrush holder, the toothpaste, our face wash. I will continue to nourish Arlo with the stuff of myself until he is 18 years old, longer if he needs it, and I will be stronger for it.
There is also a flip side to the continuing bodily assault — the incredible physical sweetness: for me it’s the softness of the bottom of Arlo’s feet, the spring of his doughy thighs, the warm swell of his stomach, his downy head, the back of his neck. It’s his breath like butterfly wings on my shoulder when I rock him to sleep. It’s his hugs — he rests his head on my shoulder, relaxing into me, cupping my biceps with his palms. It’s his kisses — his wet mouth open against my cheek. “MMMaa,” he says, leaning back and smiling, knowing he has done something good.
Friday, October 17, 2014
One More Week To Go
I am now on my 38th week of pregnancy and scheduled to give birth next week. They say it is easier the second time around, but somehow I feel it isn't. Physically, it has been harder for me. I feel more tired and a lot of body aches here and there (my doctor says maybe it comes with age?). It is also harder since I have a toddler with me who demands my full attention all the time. Despite knowing already what to expect, I still feel like a newbie with a wave of unexplainable emotions - uncertain, nervous, and overwhelmed. I do not know if my mommy superpowers will be able to handle two kids. I hope I will. While I am beyond excited to meet our baby girl, I still cannot help but feel a bit worried and scared. It is good timing I was able to stumble upon this article, which gave me a new perspective on things. I know that everything will be okay. I just have to stop worrying. Hehe
Savoring The End Of Pregnancy
by: Catherine Naja
Dear Baby,
You’re not due for another two weeks, but the doctor tells me you may be coming sooner than we thought. This news left me breathless and reeling on the exam table, and not just because I’m now acutely aware of how dilated my cervix already is. Months of denial have come to a head — you are coming any day now.
Somehow caught off-guard by how quickly the months have passed, my days since that appointment have been spent in a rushed stupor — trying to tackle all the laundry, bleaching every non-porous surface in the house, making genuine attempts to keep abreast of all the food splatters and Cheerio dust that accumulate on the kitchen floor in case I go into labor and, God forbid, your visitors are subjected to the general squalor of our day-to-day.
In truth, I feel no more prepared than before, though this is at least partly because your siblings create an equal and opposite force of destruction to match every effort I make at cleaning. I mostly feel depleted and anxious, and I’ve let those feelings drown out my gratitude and hope for what’s to come.
So here are my promises to you, our family, and myself at this bittersweet juncture in our story. As the clock ticks away the moments until you arrive, I have committed to stop and savor every last drop of this pregnancy -
1 I will leave the never-ending housework and freezer meals for another day, maybe even another person. Instead, I will sit among the crumbs on the floor and play with your siblings. We will fill these last few days with laughter and imagination and momentarily allow ourselves to forget about having to soon split my attention with a third child. We will wonder what your name is (your brother likes Stinkbug Fire Truck, so good luck getting through high school) and watch you dance in my belly as we race cars and build towers and rub noses.
2 I will allow my hot tears to drop into their hair as I put them to bed at night, quietly mourning all that will change when you step into our lives. And then I will think about all the times you will make each other squeal in bursts of laughter and delight (likely at the expense of your personal safety or our living room décor). I will imagine the days to come when you will hold each other’s hands on your first day of school, cry when you leave each other for college, stand together on your wedding day. I will picture the mischievous looks on your faces when you first realize you can work together to outnumber me.
3 I will focus less on the aches and pains, the fear of the impending labor and delivery, and the worry that that crippling sensation might actually be you trying to punch your way out of me. Instead, I will close my eyes and feel you — really FEEL you — living a whole little life inside of me. I will imagine what you look like, wonder what you are dreaming about in there and whether you know it’s my hand meeting yours on the other end of those countless tiny blows. No one else on this Earth has felt you the way I have, and this otherworldly connection between us will come to an abrupt end before we know it. Though one day soon I’ll no longer be able to feel your kicks, I know the days will come when I will instead feel you wrap your arms around my neck and nuzzle your head into my shoulder, feel you slip your warm hand into mine to know you are safe, feel you twirl my hair in your tiny fingers as you drift off to sleep in my arms.
4 Finally, I will embrace the last of these beautiful experiences unique to pregnancy, because there aren’t many times in a woman’s life when this is considered impressive and charming:
The seasons are changing in our hearts and home as we prepare for your arrival, Baby. With the pressure of so much still to do before you get here, it’s been easy to forget how fleeting and extraordinary our pregnancy together has been. The ability to appreciate every minute is perhaps an unrealistic expectation (the time I peed my pants blowing up birthday balloons comes to mind), but I consider myself blessed to have received this wakeup call that gave me a reason to hold my other babies closer for a moment and allowed me to be more present and consciously grateful for this tremendous load I carry each day. It’s been a privilege to carry you, and I can’t wait to look into your eyes and tell you how much I already love you.
Love,
Mom
Savoring The End Of Pregnancy
by: Catherine Naja
Dear Baby,
You’re not due for another two weeks, but the doctor tells me you may be coming sooner than we thought. This news left me breathless and reeling on the exam table, and not just because I’m now acutely aware of how dilated my cervix already is. Months of denial have come to a head — you are coming any day now.
Somehow caught off-guard by how quickly the months have passed, my days since that appointment have been spent in a rushed stupor — trying to tackle all the laundry, bleaching every non-porous surface in the house, making genuine attempts to keep abreast of all the food splatters and Cheerio dust that accumulate on the kitchen floor in case I go into labor and, God forbid, your visitors are subjected to the general squalor of our day-to-day.
In truth, I feel no more prepared than before, though this is at least partly because your siblings create an equal and opposite force of destruction to match every effort I make at cleaning. I mostly feel depleted and anxious, and I’ve let those feelings drown out my gratitude and hope for what’s to come.
So here are my promises to you, our family, and myself at this bittersweet juncture in our story. As the clock ticks away the moments until you arrive, I have committed to stop and savor every last drop of this pregnancy -
1 I will leave the never-ending housework and freezer meals for another day, maybe even another person. Instead, I will sit among the crumbs on the floor and play with your siblings. We will fill these last few days with laughter and imagination and momentarily allow ourselves to forget about having to soon split my attention with a third child. We will wonder what your name is (your brother likes Stinkbug Fire Truck, so good luck getting through high school) and watch you dance in my belly as we race cars and build towers and rub noses.
2 I will allow my hot tears to drop into their hair as I put them to bed at night, quietly mourning all that will change when you step into our lives. And then I will think about all the times you will make each other squeal in bursts of laughter and delight (likely at the expense of your personal safety or our living room décor). I will imagine the days to come when you will hold each other’s hands on your first day of school, cry when you leave each other for college, stand together on your wedding day. I will picture the mischievous looks on your faces when you first realize you can work together to outnumber me.
3 I will focus less on the aches and pains, the fear of the impending labor and delivery, and the worry that that crippling sensation might actually be you trying to punch your way out of me. Instead, I will close my eyes and feel you — really FEEL you — living a whole little life inside of me. I will imagine what you look like, wonder what you are dreaming about in there and whether you know it’s my hand meeting yours on the other end of those countless tiny blows. No one else on this Earth has felt you the way I have, and this otherworldly connection between us will come to an abrupt end before we know it. Though one day soon I’ll no longer be able to feel your kicks, I know the days will come when I will instead feel you wrap your arms around my neck and nuzzle your head into my shoulder, feel you slip your warm hand into mine to know you are safe, feel you twirl my hair in your tiny fingers as you drift off to sleep in my arms.
4 Finally, I will embrace the last of these beautiful experiences unique to pregnancy, because there aren’t many times in a woman’s life when this is considered impressive and charming:
The seasons are changing in our hearts and home as we prepare for your arrival, Baby. With the pressure of so much still to do before you get here, it’s been easy to forget how fleeting and extraordinary our pregnancy together has been. The ability to appreciate every minute is perhaps an unrealistic expectation (the time I peed my pants blowing up birthday balloons comes to mind), but I consider myself blessed to have received this wakeup call that gave me a reason to hold my other babies closer for a moment and allowed me to be more present and consciously grateful for this tremendous load I carry each day. It’s been a privilege to carry you, and I can’t wait to look into your eyes and tell you how much I already love you.
Love,
Mom
Thursday, October 9, 2014
Heavyweights
My son who is turning 3 in a few months, and still wants to be carried on most days. He already weighs a hefty 18kgs so imagine how heavy and tiring that is. He used to want me to carry him all the time, but since I am pregnant, I think he understands that I cannot carry him anymore. So now he has turned to his Dad, which is good in a way since I think it made them closer. He now looks for him and enjoys their father-son bonding time. We always try to make him walk and only carry him at the last resort. But reading this article has made me realize that it is okay to carry them if they want to, no matter how big they are, for this moment will only come once and soon, they will soon not want it anymore. Just have to cherish each day and enjoy the time while they are young..
The Weight of Motherhood
by: Kristin Shaw
Seven is the number of pounds I lost in my first trimester with my son, because I could not stomach anything but waffles, cereal, Pop Tarts and toaster pastries. I had no idea that pregnancy could make a woman quite that sick for weeks at a time. I couldn't see the light at the end of the tunnel as I curled up on the couch, wondering if this baby was healthy, because I felt like I had been run over by a construction-grade roller.
Nine pounds was the estimate for my son's birth weight; the doctors thought he would be too big for my body. Since I was of advanced maternal age, they mandated weekly sonograms. That suited me just fine; I could keep my anxiety in check about whether or not the cord was wrapped around his neck or if he was breech and if his tiny heart was beating properly.
Eight pounds was his actual weight when he was born. Eight pounds on the dot and twenty inches long. I held his head gently as he was finally placed in my arms, and he felt as light as a bean bag. Clumsily, I jostled him as I learned how to change his diaper, swaddle him, and nurse him. I would hold him for hours, my arms cramping. Eight pounds felt like twenty at the end of a long day of new motherhood. As the weeks went on, my arms became stronger and so did my confidence in motherhood.
Twelve was the number of pounds under my pre-pregnancy weight I was at the height of postpartum anxiety, when I was fighting jittery nerves and could not wrap my mind around finding time to feed myself. It didn't occur to me that I shouldn't have been able to fit into my jeans so quickly. Those 12 pounds represented all of the worry, and fear, and stress that had taken a toll on my body; at the same time, my son had reached the 12-pound mark.
Forty-four pounds is what my 5-year-old son weighs today.
Forty-four pounds of boy. Forty-four pounds of love and intelligence and sweetness and curiosity in a compact ball of energy.
This morning, he holds up his arms for me to pick him up, and they look closer to me and longer than ever, as if I were looking down at him through a magnifying glass. I bend my knees to hoist him with more effort.
I could have said no, you are a big boy now.
No, you have to walk.
No, I have too many other things to carry.
But I don't say no. I juggle the other things in my hands and find a way to hold him too. I breathe in his little-boy scent of sweat and soap and I hold him closely, because I know holding him closely will be a privilege I can enjoy for only a little bit longer. I'm not ready to grieve the end of his little-boy years to concede to the big-boy years, even knowing that I don't want him to stop growing. It is in the growing that I grow as well. It is only in the opportunity to watch him develop that I can also learn how to be a better mother, with practice and time.
He wants more piggyback rides lately. And I say yes. Yes, always yes. As long as I can lift him I will do it. He feels heavier, even though I have earned this weight with time invested and frequent lifting of his small body for more than five years now. The arm muscles I have are not from my infrequent visits to the gym, but from five years of holding a gradually heavier weight, every day.
And so I marvel in this time that is quickly passing me by and I try to memorize his face even as it is changing before my eyes. I touch the baby-soft skin on his arms and imprint the sensation in my brain before he no longer wants me to do that. I hold his hand every opportunity possible as I teach him how to cross the street safely. And I pick him up and carry him when he wants me to. He jumps into my arms from whatever perch he is standing and leaps with abandon, knowing that I will catch him without fail.
I allow him to tackle me and kiss my boo-boos and mess up my hair. I let him paint my skin and I don't complain when he is pressed up against me on the couch on a hot afternoon, watching Paw Patrol. I don't mind that he leans on me or likes to have a hand on me while he eats his dinner. It won't be long before he won't.
The phrase that sticks in my head is "One day, you'll put him down and won't ever pick him up again"... because he will have outgrown it. And me.
So I bend my knees and pick him up. And I hold him close for as long as I can.
The Weight of Motherhood
by: Kristin Shaw
Seven is the number of pounds I lost in my first trimester with my son, because I could not stomach anything but waffles, cereal, Pop Tarts and toaster pastries. I had no idea that pregnancy could make a woman quite that sick for weeks at a time. I couldn't see the light at the end of the tunnel as I curled up on the couch, wondering if this baby was healthy, because I felt like I had been run over by a construction-grade roller.
Nine pounds was the estimate for my son's birth weight; the doctors thought he would be too big for my body. Since I was of advanced maternal age, they mandated weekly sonograms. That suited me just fine; I could keep my anxiety in check about whether or not the cord was wrapped around his neck or if he was breech and if his tiny heart was beating properly.
Eight pounds was his actual weight when he was born. Eight pounds on the dot and twenty inches long. I held his head gently as he was finally placed in my arms, and he felt as light as a bean bag. Clumsily, I jostled him as I learned how to change his diaper, swaddle him, and nurse him. I would hold him for hours, my arms cramping. Eight pounds felt like twenty at the end of a long day of new motherhood. As the weeks went on, my arms became stronger and so did my confidence in motherhood.
Twelve was the number of pounds under my pre-pregnancy weight I was at the height of postpartum anxiety, when I was fighting jittery nerves and could not wrap my mind around finding time to feed myself. It didn't occur to me that I shouldn't have been able to fit into my jeans so quickly. Those 12 pounds represented all of the worry, and fear, and stress that had taken a toll on my body; at the same time, my son had reached the 12-pound mark.
Forty-four pounds is what my 5-year-old son weighs today.
Forty-four pounds of boy. Forty-four pounds of love and intelligence and sweetness and curiosity in a compact ball of energy.
This morning, he holds up his arms for me to pick him up, and they look closer to me and longer than ever, as if I were looking down at him through a magnifying glass. I bend my knees to hoist him with more effort.
I could have said no, you are a big boy now.
No, you have to walk.
No, I have too many other things to carry.
But I don't say no. I juggle the other things in my hands and find a way to hold him too. I breathe in his little-boy scent of sweat and soap and I hold him closely, because I know holding him closely will be a privilege I can enjoy for only a little bit longer. I'm not ready to grieve the end of his little-boy years to concede to the big-boy years, even knowing that I don't want him to stop growing. It is in the growing that I grow as well. It is only in the opportunity to watch him develop that I can also learn how to be a better mother, with practice and time.
He wants more piggyback rides lately. And I say yes. Yes, always yes. As long as I can lift him I will do it. He feels heavier, even though I have earned this weight with time invested and frequent lifting of his small body for more than five years now. The arm muscles I have are not from my infrequent visits to the gym, but from five years of holding a gradually heavier weight, every day.
And so I marvel in this time that is quickly passing me by and I try to memorize his face even as it is changing before my eyes. I touch the baby-soft skin on his arms and imprint the sensation in my brain before he no longer wants me to do that. I hold his hand every opportunity possible as I teach him how to cross the street safely. And I pick him up and carry him when he wants me to. He jumps into my arms from whatever perch he is standing and leaps with abandon, knowing that I will catch him without fail.
I allow him to tackle me and kiss my boo-boos and mess up my hair. I let him paint my skin and I don't complain when he is pressed up against me on the couch on a hot afternoon, watching Paw Patrol. I don't mind that he leans on me or likes to have a hand on me while he eats his dinner. It won't be long before he won't.
The phrase that sticks in my head is "One day, you'll put him down and won't ever pick him up again"... because he will have outgrown it. And me.
So I bend my knees and pick him up. And I hold him close for as long as I can.
Monday, July 14, 2014
On Raising A Boy
I could not agree more with this article. But no regrets on raising one. I am sure all the mommies will agree to #10.
10 Things I Wish I'd Known About Raising A Boy
by: Holly Pevzner
When you have a girl, you know that you can always fall back on your own childhood memories to guide you as a parent. But unless you grew up with a brother, there's a good chance that parts of raising a boy can take you by surprise. From the sports obsession to the penis comparisons, here are 10 things I wish I'd known about bringing up boys.
1 There will be planes, trains and automobiles.
Even if you stock your nursery with mixed-gender toys like baby dolls and play kitchens, odds are matchbox cars and trucks will multiply on their own in your home, boats will line your bathtub and train track will loop around your floor. Little boys adore anything that flies, sails, drives, digs or mixes. “I could have never anticipated the amount of fun he can have with just a few cars,” said mom of two Dana McCranie. “I love watching his little fingers wrapped around two cars and imagining what he sees as he drives them around with animation and sound effects.”
2 Boys don’t stop moving.
From the moment they come bouncing into your bed at 5:30 in the morning until they pass out at bedtime, boys go. Sometimes it seems like they have only two speeds — fast and faster. This means that your toddler could be sitting on the floor shaking a rattle one minute and when you turn your head, he will have summitted the dining room table. He may not ever slow down, but you’ll learn to pick up the pace. “Give them goals,” said dad of three Randolph RoVino. “Give them the tools. Give them encouragement to use the energy that they have. And have your sneakers on!”
3 Clothes shopping will be a piece of cake.
A girl’s wardrobe can be sizable. But boys? Well, there are pants, sneakers and T-shirts. There are no outfits. Everything, essentially, goes together. “There may be fewer options in the store, but I’ll happily dress a boy over a girl any day,” said mom of one Bonnie Vengrow. “The palette is simple, the clothes are cute, and he’ll let me dress him with no fuss.”
4 His fascination with his penis starts sooner than you think.
Chalk it up to the cave man instinct, but boys play with their penises practically from birth. (And those baby erections? Whoa.) Once he figures out it’s there, it’ll be everything you can do to keep his hands from drifting down there all the time. “I remember other moms warning me when I had my first son, ‘Don't worry if he touches his thing all the time. It's normal,’” said mom of two Melissa Phipps. “I'm still not sure if my 8-year-old is in the normal range, but whenever he had a free moment, he whips it out. Ironically, the only time he doesn't have his hand on his penis is when he's using the toilet and should be holding it to aim correctly. That's when it can't be tamed.”
5 Roughhousing is innate.
Boys are physical. There's the jumping off furniture, the rolling on each other, the "hug" that turns into a full-body running tackle. It's often how they connect and express affection. “My sons constantly have to touch each other and be near each other,” said mom of two Stacy Genovese. “We recently finished our basement and it’s a huge playroom but yet they both have to play right on top of each other and then it’s the inevitable ‘He hit me!’, ‘No, he hit him first!’” Exhausting? Yes. Normal and healthy? Absolutely. This kind of physical interaction can foster positive relationships, boost the body's feel-good chemicals and promote intelligence — even if it means stuff around the house is going to get broken.
6 You’ll probably make a trip to the emergency room.
There are boys and there are coffee tables and these two things often add up to stitches. You will learn to anticipate the most dangerous risks (and you might want to buy cushioned corners for the coffee table before your son can even pull up), but there will be a time when you're just a second too late and you land up driving to the ER. Don’t blame yourself — it's a rite of passage for all boy moms. “It's hard not to feel ashamed when it happens, but don't worry. Other parents sympathize,” Phipps said.
7 Pee will be everywhere. Everywhere.
On the floor. Behind the toilet. On the wall. All over the seat that they neglected to lift up. Apparently, it takes time and an attention span not to spray the entire bathroom while urinating. “Peeing everywhere never stops — argh!,” said mom Shirlie Sharpe. “The only thing that changes is that as they get bigger, their range increases.” Your best bet: Keep some Clorox wipes at the ready and remind yourself that unless there's poop involved, your child won't ever need to sit on a dirty public toilet seat. Oh, and it's incredibly easy for them to pee behind a tree in the park.
8 You’ll learn not to compare your son to girls.
Watch a girl the same age as your nonstop ball of energy sit quietly and use glitter glue for 45 minutes and you may want to cry. Girls often reach milestones earlier and excel at many essential school skills like reading and, er, sitting still. “The girls in my son Ian’s class and the daughters of my friends are way more advanced than my boys,” Genovese said. “They’re just more aware of the world around them. One friend with girls the same ages as my boys said, ‘For me, it’s all mental. For you, it’s all physical.‘ And that’s exactly right.” Boys can also approach things differently, which is part of the fun. Case in point: “My girls never thought to make puzzles in the nude!” said mom of three Gina Ferrara.
9 The goofiness starts early.
There will be days when you watch your son with his friends and you just won't get it. Boy humor can be extra goofy and the potty humor starts as soon as they can talk. “Who knew the love of fart jokes was part of a boy's development?” said Phipps. “At some point after learning to talk, farts will be all your little one talks about. I am not sure when the phase ends.” So trust that you will be told that your dinner tastes like poop. You'll be called poopy head and poopy pants. If you laugh (and it's often hard not to) or scold, you just give the poop talk more value. So try to keep a straight face at least until you can vent on Facebook.
10 Boys adore their moms.
There's a strong and consistent love that comes from boys from the get-go — and stays there through the long haul. “Whenever you come home, it’s like being a rock star in your own home,” Genovese said. Phipps agrees, “The thing I will miss most when my boys grow up is the adoring way they look at me and stroke my face and hair. They are such little romantics. I will say to my 6-year-old, ‘You're cute’ and he'll respond ‘You're cuter!’ It almost makes it worth being the only female in an all-male household.”
10 Things I Wish I'd Known About Raising A Boy
by: Holly Pevzner
When you have a girl, you know that you can always fall back on your own childhood memories to guide you as a parent. But unless you grew up with a brother, there's a good chance that parts of raising a boy can take you by surprise. From the sports obsession to the penis comparisons, here are 10 things I wish I'd known about bringing up boys.
1 There will be planes, trains and automobiles.
Even if you stock your nursery with mixed-gender toys like baby dolls and play kitchens, odds are matchbox cars and trucks will multiply on their own in your home, boats will line your bathtub and train track will loop around your floor. Little boys adore anything that flies, sails, drives, digs or mixes. “I could have never anticipated the amount of fun he can have with just a few cars,” said mom of two Dana McCranie. “I love watching his little fingers wrapped around two cars and imagining what he sees as he drives them around with animation and sound effects.”
2 Boys don’t stop moving.
From the moment they come bouncing into your bed at 5:30 in the morning until they pass out at bedtime, boys go. Sometimes it seems like they have only two speeds — fast and faster. This means that your toddler could be sitting on the floor shaking a rattle one minute and when you turn your head, he will have summitted the dining room table. He may not ever slow down, but you’ll learn to pick up the pace. “Give them goals,” said dad of three Randolph RoVino. “Give them the tools. Give them encouragement to use the energy that they have. And have your sneakers on!”
3 Clothes shopping will be a piece of cake.
A girl’s wardrobe can be sizable. But boys? Well, there are pants, sneakers and T-shirts. There are no outfits. Everything, essentially, goes together. “There may be fewer options in the store, but I’ll happily dress a boy over a girl any day,” said mom of one Bonnie Vengrow. “The palette is simple, the clothes are cute, and he’ll let me dress him with no fuss.”
4 His fascination with his penis starts sooner than you think.
Chalk it up to the cave man instinct, but boys play with their penises practically from birth. (And those baby erections? Whoa.) Once he figures out it’s there, it’ll be everything you can do to keep his hands from drifting down there all the time. “I remember other moms warning me when I had my first son, ‘Don't worry if he touches his thing all the time. It's normal,’” said mom of two Melissa Phipps. “I'm still not sure if my 8-year-old is in the normal range, but whenever he had a free moment, he whips it out. Ironically, the only time he doesn't have his hand on his penis is when he's using the toilet and should be holding it to aim correctly. That's when it can't be tamed.”
5 Roughhousing is innate.
Boys are physical. There's the jumping off furniture, the rolling on each other, the "hug" that turns into a full-body running tackle. It's often how they connect and express affection. “My sons constantly have to touch each other and be near each other,” said mom of two Stacy Genovese. “We recently finished our basement and it’s a huge playroom but yet they both have to play right on top of each other and then it’s the inevitable ‘He hit me!’, ‘No, he hit him first!’” Exhausting? Yes. Normal and healthy? Absolutely. This kind of physical interaction can foster positive relationships, boost the body's feel-good chemicals and promote intelligence — even if it means stuff around the house is going to get broken.
6 You’ll probably make a trip to the emergency room.
There are boys and there are coffee tables and these two things often add up to stitches. You will learn to anticipate the most dangerous risks (and you might want to buy cushioned corners for the coffee table before your son can even pull up), but there will be a time when you're just a second too late and you land up driving to the ER. Don’t blame yourself — it's a rite of passage for all boy moms. “It's hard not to feel ashamed when it happens, but don't worry. Other parents sympathize,” Phipps said.
7 Pee will be everywhere. Everywhere.
On the floor. Behind the toilet. On the wall. All over the seat that they neglected to lift up. Apparently, it takes time and an attention span not to spray the entire bathroom while urinating. “Peeing everywhere never stops — argh!,” said mom Shirlie Sharpe. “The only thing that changes is that as they get bigger, their range increases.” Your best bet: Keep some Clorox wipes at the ready and remind yourself that unless there's poop involved, your child won't ever need to sit on a dirty public toilet seat. Oh, and it's incredibly easy for them to pee behind a tree in the park.
8 You’ll learn not to compare your son to girls.
Watch a girl the same age as your nonstop ball of energy sit quietly and use glitter glue for 45 minutes and you may want to cry. Girls often reach milestones earlier and excel at many essential school skills like reading and, er, sitting still. “The girls in my son Ian’s class and the daughters of my friends are way more advanced than my boys,” Genovese said. “They’re just more aware of the world around them. One friend with girls the same ages as my boys said, ‘For me, it’s all mental. For you, it’s all physical.‘ And that’s exactly right.” Boys can also approach things differently, which is part of the fun. Case in point: “My girls never thought to make puzzles in the nude!” said mom of three Gina Ferrara.
9 The goofiness starts early.
There will be days when you watch your son with his friends and you just won't get it. Boy humor can be extra goofy and the potty humor starts as soon as they can talk. “Who knew the love of fart jokes was part of a boy's development?” said Phipps. “At some point after learning to talk, farts will be all your little one talks about. I am not sure when the phase ends.” So trust that you will be told that your dinner tastes like poop. You'll be called poopy head and poopy pants. If you laugh (and it's often hard not to) or scold, you just give the poop talk more value. So try to keep a straight face at least until you can vent on Facebook.
10 Boys adore their moms.
There's a strong and consistent love that comes from boys from the get-go — and stays there through the long haul. “Whenever you come home, it’s like being a rock star in your own home,” Genovese said. Phipps agrees, “The thing I will miss most when my boys grow up is the adoring way they look at me and stroke my face and hair. They are such little romantics. I will say to my 6-year-old, ‘You're cute’ and he'll respond ‘You're cuter!’ It almost makes it worth being the only female in an all-male household.”
Tuesday, July 1, 2014
Hello July!
And just like that, we are already halfway through the year. It has been pretty slow and steady during the first half, especially with a baby on the way. Coping with morning sickness has been terribly hard for me compared to my first experience. It has indeed weighed (figuratively and literally) me down a lot. I feel like I have been on voluntary house arrest for a looong time. But now on my second trimester with all the pregnancy sickness gone, I can say I am 80% back. I am trying my best to get back to 100% normalcy, if there is even such a thing in the motherhood realm. I am just glad and thankful that I have good househelps who can lend me a hand on this journey and help me stay sane. Like everyone else, I am hoping they stay long until my kids are old enough, but that’s wishful thinking.
Anyway, if there is anything that I am looking forward to aside from giving birth to our second child (it’s a girl!) this October, I also cannot wait to move in to a bigger house (yey!). I cannot say if this is our dream house just yet, but we are excited to be given this wonderful opportunity. The house is really more for the kids—to let them enjoy a bigger space to run and play. I really hope our house will turn out the way we imagined it to be.
Anyway, if there is anything that I am looking forward to aside from giving birth to our second child (it’s a girl!) this October, I also cannot wait to move in to a bigger house (yey!). I cannot say if this is our dream house just yet, but we are excited to be given this wonderful opportunity. The house is really more for the kids—to let them enjoy a bigger space to run and play. I really hope our house will turn out the way we imagined it to be.
Sunday, February 23, 2014
Four to Two
Since I came from a big family, I knew I wanted many kids of my own someday. I initially wanted four kids, five tops. But I have been thinking hard about it lately. The number of kids I now want to have has dwindled down to a drastic two. Give or take, maybe three. I don’t know if it is even practical (and logical) to have many kids these days. Aside from rising costs rising and fast disappearing good helps, ultimately I want to provide good quality life to my kids. I want to be hands on and devote my full 100% to each of my child, which is less likely to happen when there are more than one (much more three or four) kids around. I could wait and allow for a wider age gap, but I’m not sure if my body clock will still allow it. Hehe I used to not understand couples who announce that they do not plan on ever having any kids or that they just want few kids. Now I am beginning to understand why they do. Reality check, past the red roses and all, it is not always easy especially for those who are not comfortable with the idea of leaving their children under the care of househelps/yayas 24-hours. I, for one have not grown accustomed to leaving my kid with the yaya the whole day. While I trust and depend on my yaya, I still try to supervise and be there (or have a family member stay with him) as much as possible. I actually have a pretty good setup for now. I can work (and go out) regularly and leave my kid with my mom or sisters, but when the time comes the second one arrives (still planning though), I am not sure how this will work out. And since I think too waaay ahead, I am not sure how even a third one will pan out. Well, unless I become a full time/stay at home mom, which I think isn't for me either. Just thinking about it is already making me stressed. That is why I have decided to cut down on my dream number and focus on having two kids (for now).
Thursday, February 6, 2014
Being a Parent
I am going to post all the good reads I find online in this blog so I have something to go back to and remind me of parenthood when the time comes (which is still very far from now. Hehe). I can really relate to each of the nine things mentioned in the article; it's very spot on.
9 Things I Didn't Know I'd Love About Being a Parent
by: Kaylee Scottaline
Despite having a well-stocked library of What to Expect and other "guide books" to being a mommy, there was admittedly a lot I didn't know before becoming a mommy. I addressed a great deal of those lessons here.
But, as I watched my daughter tonight, learning how to put the crown back onto her head after having taken it off, I felt myself smile from deep inside. I'd watched her pull things off of her head for the better part of a year now. This was nothing new. But putting them back on? Yet another new skill kiddo is rapidly getting under her belt. And I was proud. And at that moment, I realized there's a whole other list of things that no one ever told me I'd love about being a parent:
1
When your child learns a new skill, you will be as proud of them for learning how to put a pink, felt crown on their own head as you would be if they'd just cured cancer. (Clearly, not nearly as important in the grand scheme of things, but that's the point. Being a parent means becoming insanely proud of things like going pee pee on the potty).
2
Your child's face will burst into pure delight from simple things like hearing and seeing the water draining from the bath tub. And this delight on your child's face will cause your heart to damn near explode from joy.
3
You will actually learn to function on no sleep. And you will stay up voluntarily at night just to hold your child a little longer and feel her breathing against your chest. You'll even wake up earlier than necessary for work in the morning so that you can manage to squeeze a snuggle session into your morning routine.
4
You won't bat a short, naked eyelash at the fact that you can no longer afford your expensive makeup or skincare products because you have to pay for baby care items instead. One long whiff of your child's hair and none of it matters at all.
5
Your life will turn into a Broadway show where even going down the stairs requires a song and a dance. And these daily, impromptu performances will be the most rewarding performances of your life.
6
You will love this little person more than you have ever loved yourself. Every decision in your life going forward will revolve around your child.
7
The sound of your little one's giggle is all you need to put even the worst day behind you. And a snuggle and unprompted kiss? They can wipe out a whole week of bad.
8
You won't remember how you ever survived making dinner without having a kitchen dance party, singing into a wooden spoon. In your socks and pajamas. At 5:30 p.m.. And you will have so much more fun than you ever did at the club.
9
You will look at your child and feel as if a piece of your heart is walking outside of your body. Because it is.
Let's be honest; being a parent is hard. It is the most difficult and important task any of us will ever undertake. It is also the most rewarding. The contagious smiles, infectious laughter and the bright twinkle in my little girl's big brown eyes is more than enough to make all of the sleepless nights worthwhile. What no one ever told me about being a parent? That I would give life to a child but that child would remind me what it means to live.
9 Things I Didn't Know I'd Love About Being a Parent
by: Kaylee Scottaline
Despite having a well-stocked library of What to Expect and other "guide books" to being a mommy, there was admittedly a lot I didn't know before becoming a mommy. I addressed a great deal of those lessons here.
But, as I watched my daughter tonight, learning how to put the crown back onto her head after having taken it off, I felt myself smile from deep inside. I'd watched her pull things off of her head for the better part of a year now. This was nothing new. But putting them back on? Yet another new skill kiddo is rapidly getting under her belt. And I was proud. And at that moment, I realized there's a whole other list of things that no one ever told me I'd love about being a parent:
1
When your child learns a new skill, you will be as proud of them for learning how to put a pink, felt crown on their own head as you would be if they'd just cured cancer. (Clearly, not nearly as important in the grand scheme of things, but that's the point. Being a parent means becoming insanely proud of things like going pee pee on the potty).
2
Your child's face will burst into pure delight from simple things like hearing and seeing the water draining from the bath tub. And this delight on your child's face will cause your heart to damn near explode from joy.
3
You will actually learn to function on no sleep. And you will stay up voluntarily at night just to hold your child a little longer and feel her breathing against your chest. You'll even wake up earlier than necessary for work in the morning so that you can manage to squeeze a snuggle session into your morning routine.
4
You won't bat a short, naked eyelash at the fact that you can no longer afford your expensive makeup or skincare products because you have to pay for baby care items instead. One long whiff of your child's hair and none of it matters at all.
5
Your life will turn into a Broadway show where even going down the stairs requires a song and a dance. And these daily, impromptu performances will be the most rewarding performances of your life.
6
You will love this little person more than you have ever loved yourself. Every decision in your life going forward will revolve around your child.
7
The sound of your little one's giggle is all you need to put even the worst day behind you. And a snuggle and unprompted kiss? They can wipe out a whole week of bad.
8
You won't remember how you ever survived making dinner without having a kitchen dance party, singing into a wooden spoon. In your socks and pajamas. At 5:30 p.m.. And you will have so much more fun than you ever did at the club.
9
You will look at your child and feel as if a piece of your heart is walking outside of your body. Because it is.
Let's be honest; being a parent is hard. It is the most difficult and important task any of us will ever undertake. It is also the most rewarding. The contagious smiles, infectious laughter and the bright twinkle in my little girl's big brown eyes is more than enough to make all of the sleepless nights worthwhile. What no one ever told me about being a parent? That I would give life to a child but that child would remind me what it means to live.
Thursday, January 30, 2014
Donya Problems
Getting married has taught me a lot of things—keeping house is one of them. Now that my husband and I live on our own, the groceries, utility and household bills (and househelps) has taken up a huge chunk of not only our pockets, but also our time and energy. It is especially stressful to tend to the househelps. It is not that easy to find a good help these days. And when you do find a good one, it is equally stressful when they decide to leave. Who are you to stop them from finding greener pastures right? Sometimes I am so tempted to just not hire anymore. Not only will it do us good financially, it will also give us a lot of peace of mind. I wish I could say I do not need them. But I do. That is the harsh truth. As much as I want to be self-sufficient, I can’t. I need someone to help me with my toddler. I need someone who can take care of the house so I can work or have some alone time. If it was two years ago when it just me and the hubby, I can confidently do without a help. But it is a different story now as we have a toddler and we are planning to have another one. As much as I hate to say it, I am dependent on them.
I wonder how Western families do it. They are able to get by without any helps at all. They are able to juggle everything—work a living, keep house, and tend to the kids, then squeeze in some “me” time somewhere in there if possible at all. Phew! It sounds tiring right? As I have noticed, most Western kids are more independent than their counterparts because they are taught and exposed early on, whereas, kids here are more dependent and sheltered (even until they reach college!). I have always wondered maybe if I was brought up without any household helps, today will be entirely different. Say what household helps?
For now, I have to adjust and slowly train myself to be more self-sufficient. It is actually easy. What is hard is the sacrifice that you are going to have to make for yourself—for example, time to watch your downloaded shows in bed versus time to wash the dishes? Time to sleep in more versus time to feed and bathe the baby? Yes there are trade-offs. Househelps make our life easier and convenient, but then they also give us plenty of headaches. As they say we can and cannot live without them. I cannot wait for the day when I can really say that I don’t need them anymore.
I wonder how Western families do it. They are able to get by without any helps at all. They are able to juggle everything—work a living, keep house, and tend to the kids, then squeeze in some “me” time somewhere in there if possible at all. Phew! It sounds tiring right? As I have noticed, most Western kids are more independent than their counterparts because they are taught and exposed early on, whereas, kids here are more dependent and sheltered (even until they reach college!). I have always wondered maybe if I was brought up without any household helps, today will be entirely different. Say what household helps?
For now, I have to adjust and slowly train myself to be more self-sufficient. It is actually easy. What is hard is the sacrifice that you are going to have to make for yourself—for example, time to watch your downloaded shows in bed versus time to wash the dishes? Time to sleep in more versus time to feed and bathe the baby? Yes there are trade-offs. Househelps make our life easier and convenient, but then they also give us plenty of headaches. As they say we can and cannot live without them. I cannot wait for the day when I can really say that I don’t need them anymore.
Monday, January 27, 2014
Happy Birthday!
We celebrated Rafa’s 2nd birthday last January 3. We initially didn’t want to plan anything as we wanted to have just a simple dinner with the family. But we ended with a swimming party instead. I am lucky to have an aunt who generously agreed to host the party at her place. It was also timely we had relatives from Hong Kong who were in town. All of my nieces and nephews combined makes one noisy (and fun!) party. More than anything else, aside from celebrating my son’s birthday, it was a nice family gathering. It was good seeing everyone enjoying and having a happy time. I am also grateful our cake supplier agreed to make his Mickey Mouse Clubhouse themed cake even if it was such short notice. It was a hectic day but I think the little boy enjoyed his special day.
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| Rafa's Cake |
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| Willie the Giant |
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| Mickey Mouse Clubhouse Topper Cupcakes |
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| Mickey Mouse Clubhouse |
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