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.
Friday, October 31, 2014
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.
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