A Year Later: Random Thoughts

It's been one year since my dad died. I'm sad today, but the lead up has been the worst. Knowing this day is coming, that it has been an entire year, that we are actually fine and functioning, that I feel like we shouldn't be fine and functioning, it's all stressful. I mean come on! Someone died! You can't just go forward with life after that. Of course, it isn't all fine, but life goes on. And that's stressful too.

In a lot of ways, things are the same. I get up, feed the kids, tell them to go to the bathroom, feed them again, tell them to nap, feed them some more. Some days we go grocery shopping or do something fun away from the house. So that's all the same. But I don't talk to anyone except the kids until my husband gets home from work. And instead of saying "you should show that to papa" its "papa would have loved that." And my kids play games where their dolls have dead parents or siblings. And my son comes up with things to make me not be sad. So that's all different and new and hardly wonderful.

My mom died about 5 months after my dad, but today feels like her anniversary too. She wasn't the same. She tried to be, but they were so much a part of each others lives she couldn't really ever be the same. So this is the day everything changed. January 6. We knew the day was coming, and really, the change in the family happened when he was diagnosed a month earlier, but you can't really execute your "when my dad dies plan" until your dad dies. And we couldn't really jump into the "clean the house and get rid of it" thing because my mom, who lost her husband of 40 years, lived there and needed some time (my brother gave her a month, we were feeling generous!). The whole of 2016 was actually a super stressful shitstorm (interspersed with amazingly good things too!) so maybe the real anniversary will be a year from the closing of selling our old house when we can say "we made it a year since that horribly stressful year." But I guess the stress isn't ending, the consequences of the loss of my parents will never stop. We will just get more accustomed to living with them. So maybe there is never an anniversary for something like a death.

2016 Can End Any Time Now

We've had a rough year so far.

My dad was diagnosed with cancer in December of last year and he passed away at home in early January. We barely had a month to fully understand the cancer before it had already destroyed him. Looking back at photos, it's clear it was eating at him for a long time. An earlier diagnosis would have been nice, would have probably prevented some of his unbearable pain, but I appreciate that we got to enjoy fun times without the inevitable looming over us. Christmas was hard knowing it was his last. We got to enjoy his last summer, birthday, grandchildren's birthdays, Halloween, and Thanksgiving with the freedom of thinking he would live forever.

My mom was, yes was, capable of caring for herself but not her house. So that was a problem we needed to fix once my dad passed. My husband and I have been wanting a bigger yard so we put one of the craziest plans I have ever come up with into motion. Sell my mom's house, sell our house, and we will all move in together! Flawless. It would have actually worked, though, except my mom died a week after we moved into our new house together in the end of May.

My dad's illness blindsided us; I don't even know what word to use for mom's illness and death. I took her to the doctor for shortness of breath on a Wednesday ("exhaustion" they said) and she died the following Tuesday. Her decline from Monday night, no Tuesday morning, to Tuesday around noon was insane, even the doctors didn't see it coming. We barely got the dreaded "you should come visit, she maybe has a few days left" calls done when she died. It was horrible. Beyond horrible. But I didn't fully comprehend the horrible until, well, I guess the horrible is still washing over me.

So the house fiasco. Selling her house was the easy part--except for the fact that we had to clear out 40 years of memories. Buying a house also turned out fairly easy. I'm not sure how we have even made it happen so far. We made enough on my mom's house to wipe out some of our debt and be able to have a pretty good down payment so we could buy before selling our own place. But now we have two houses and are having trouble getting our old one on the market. Finding the balance between making it look good enough to sell and not sinking tons of money into it is tricky, to say the least. But it should be on the market soon. Unless something comes up. Something always comes up.

Anyway, that all sucked. Except getting a new house, that totally rocks.

We love our new home. The kids love the new home. They love the yard (did I mention our new yard is easily 4 times the size of our old one? And half the old one was covered in concrete?) They love the clean basement. We are really happy here.

But there is always a tinge of sadness. My son asked why we still have 6 chairs at the table. We were supposed to be 6 and now we're 5. I don't even know what to call my mom's old room. Ever since we found the house it was "her room." I'm slowly going through her stuff that's here, but I'm not even done processing going through my dad's stuff. I can't just let it sit, we need to move forward. So I do a tiny bit every day. Or maybe every other day. Or more like once a week. I've incorporated the pictures she had at her house into our own collection. I love them and hate them. I don't know that they'll ever be my pictures. Even the kids refer to them as "things from papa and ba's house." And when there isn't sadness, I feel guilty for not being sad. And I feel guilty that I got out of a depressing house (that wasn't really so bad) because my dad died and I have more room in my new house because my mom died.

The summer has been pretty good. It wasn't too bad planning the funeral, she was cremated so we didn't have to rush into anything. And, honestly, it's a relief I don't have to plan any more funerals for my parents. I'm fresh out of those and they were a limited edition! Actually, planning the funeral was horrible too. Picking out songs, readings, readers, preventing drama (why do people have to bring drama into everything? My mom's funeral is not the time for you to realize you were a total ass for decades. Clear your conscience on your own time.) But that is over.

The kids and I have found some fun local parks. We are getting into a daily rhythm, our new normal without their favorite people. And since I have no backup, I just do things. Take all the kids with me, on my own, whatever, wherever. I can't wait for help (not that people haven't offered, I am surrounded by amazing people--they just happen to be people who have jobs) or do everything on the weekends. So we just do things. And that's actually kind of fun. And freeing.

My parents were great, but being parents they always were worried about me. They had a hard time seeing me as an adult, and I get that. I have kids of my own and they will always be my babies. So now that they are gone, I have no one to justify any of my decisions to. But also I have no one to confirm that, yes, those are the cutest dresses of all time and I should get matching ones for the girls. Or no one to tell me I am being ridiculous (except my husband, which isn't helpful when he's the one I'm mad at) and that I need to chill out a bit. I feel alone. Not lonely, I have people I love around me all the time, but alone. I'm on my own. It's weird. I'm an adult orphan much earlier than I thought I would be and it's hard.

Even though I need 2016 to be over, I'm dreading the fall and holidays a bit. I have my littlest's 1st birthday in September. Then more birthdays in November, along with Thanksgiving. Then Christmas. That was always our favorite. Easter this year was hard without my dad. But Christmas is going to be a mess. But it will be in our new house, so maybe since everything will be new the loss of two important people won't be felt as strongly. Or maybe not. I will probably switch between laughing and crying the whole time.

After my mom died she said that the chapter of our lives that my dad was in is over and it was time to start a new one. She didn't realize she wasn't going to get another chapter, she just got a kind of okay epilogue. And the chapter that ended for me wasn't the one that had my dad, it was the one that included my mom and the house I grew up in and the house my kids were babies in and the city I lived in for the first 32 years of my life. It's like I'm in an entirely different book now. Fan fiction, made with beloved characters in a different setting just to mix things up.

Anyway, so that's my long ramble about why 2016 can just be over and we can start fresh in 2017. Next year can't possibly have as many sad firsts as this one. Except for my oldest starting kindergarten, but that's exciting and sad.

Weaning Always Sneaks Up on Me

My daughter just weaned herself (for the most part.) When we got up last Friday she didn't come to me to nurse at all and I didn't offer. She didn't ask the entire day. I realized that Thursday was last day she was going to nurse. Writing that makes me a tinge sad, but not as sad as when I weaned my son. She asked a few times over the weekend but was easily distracted. Thursday was the last day and I don't even remember what that nursing session was like. I knew this day was coming so I have tried to savor it, but I didn't expect it so soon.

I had been working on getting her to one feeding each morning and didn't have any plans on eliminating that morning feeding yet. But she doesn't need it, it was just habit. She was more attached to breastfeeding for comfort than my son was, but she really just liked the cuddles. I have been showing her, just like I did with my son, that loves and cuddles don't require nursing.

My son weaned at just about 17 months, which is exactly what my daughter is now. I don't mind breastfeeding, but it is tiring. And I am touched out. I am pregnant with my third baby, just as I was pregnant with my second while my son was nursing, and I think that plays into my feelings about nursing.

Anyway, that phase of her life is over. It is a bit sad. But my body has been providing nourishment for someone other than myself for more than 4 years and I figure I have about 2 more years to go. I would be lying if I didn't admit I am looking forward to just keeping my own body alive.

And she is just fine. This morning she didn't ask to nurse at all. I was greeted with all smiles. We cuddled and hugged and hung out. All is good. Her baby phase is over.

And now I can wear my cute non-nursing compatible maternity dresses.

Thoughts on Babies, Miscarriages, and Spreading the Joy

Only a handful of people outside of my family know that I had two miscarriages between my two living children. I don't know how many family members know because I let my mom spread the news (mom's are awesome that way, doing the hard things for their babies.)

I have a small extended family and I only know of one relative, one of my great grandmothers, that suffered a loss. I don't know if there are more losses, things like this are so hush hush. My mother in law also had a miscarriage, but I only know that she took it as a sign she was too old to have more children. So I was kind of in uncharted territory as far as the women in my close circle were concerned when I lost my first baby. Then when I had my second miscarriage, it was even more unexpected. I cried (and I think my parents did too) and I cried and I cried and I was sure I would never have any more children. Well, I did have another child. But I had a very hard time bonding with her in utero because I was so scared of losing her.

So here I am today, pregnant again and super early in my pregnancy. But this time, although I am nervous, I am much more relaxed. In reading some pregnancy forum threads after my daughter was born, I was led to a blog of a woman who suffered many miscarriages.  She had developed the most amazing mantra. I can't remember it word for word, but the gist is "I am pregnant today and I am happy today." I repeat that to myself often. Although it doesn't remove all anxiety about losing this baby, it helps me through the tough times and allows me to be excited.

I am definitely not happy about losing two babies, but I took those events and learned a lot about a lot of things. Namely, that babies are extremely complicated and so many things have to line up just right for them to grow and thrive. I learned that people grieve the way they grieve and no one can say whether it is right or not. I also learned that telling people about miscarriages makes it easier to say and admit to yourself as well as opens up a line of communication for others (a close friend miscarried recently and I don't know that she would have told me had I not been open with her about my experiences.) I learned that I am a fearful person, which is something I am working on. And I learned that miscarriage and infant death are treated completely different from other tragedies.

That last point confuses me the most. As horrible as it is, miscarriage is quite common and still births and infant deaths happen too. But we "can't" tell anyone and we suffer alone because it is taboo to bring it up. If my grandmother were to die or my husband, I am pretty sure I would tell people why I was sad or out of sorts or obviously grieving, but I have read posts by women who don't feel like they can say why they are grieving after miscarriages. How sad is that?! Perhaps we have different coping mechanisms for miscarriage and infant loss, but I don't understand why that would be.

Anyway, back to why I have been thinking about this. I feel like miscarriages should be discussed. We need to be more open about it so that women suffering through losses know who to turn to for support, advice, and whatever piece of mind is possibl. And pregnancies should be celebrated from the beginning, especially so women don't have to suffer through morning sickness and other symptoms in silence. But here I sit, pregnant and hesitant to say anything to anyone outside of my immediate family until I hear the baby's heartbeat. Hypocritical much?

I guess babies and parenthood are complicated from the very beginning. 

What the Past Week Has Taught Me About Toddlers and Potties

My son will be 3 in about a month and I was determined to at least have him trying to use the potty by then. We have been working on this for a while now, on and off. He clearly wasn't ready until last week as that most recent attempt has been very successful. But I have learned a few things along the way. So now that I am an expert in teaching my own son to use a toilet, here is my newly acquired knoweldge:

1. Children, especially headstrong and stubborn children, will not even attempt something new until they want to. I knew my son was physically able to use the potty, knew he knew the process (he would recite the order of sit on potty, wipe, pull up pants, flush, and wash hands), and that he was starting to get annoyed by diaper changes. But he would not do it until he wanted to. I don't know which of the million things I told him about how great it is to be a big kid out of diapers finally got through to him, but something did. Or none of the things I said helped and he just figured it out on his own.

2. It is best not to start this potty business during a major house project like building a sidewalk in the back yard. As if keeping a curious toddler out of concrete isnt hard enough, let's add watching for him to pee his pants. Plus, my son wanted to watch the whole sidewalk-buidling process and wouldn't come in to use the potty. So I had to bring it outside for him to use in the back of his grandpa's truck. Future house projects will be completed around all future potty teaching schedule(s).

3. Teaching a child how to understand and control this crazy body process of eliminating waste requires patience. Patience and PMS are mutually exclusive in my house. I don't think I would have changed the timing of the diaper removal had I realized where I was in my cycle, but knowing I am angsty from PMS helps me de-angst when I need to. Poor guy wouldn't have had such an earful when he pooped in his unders had I been checking my own emotions. (For the record, I apologized, but I do think it lit a fire under him to try to go in the potty.)

4. Watching him constantly and waiting for the potty dance so I can help him recognize his body signals is exhausting. The whole family sleeps all night for the most part, but this past week has left me more exhausted than when I was getting up every few hours with my daughter. And I had horrible dreams for five nights in a row where I was responsible for making sure someone in my dream made it to a toilet on time. So much stress!

Although it probably wasn't the best week to put the diapers away, I am so glad we are where we are on the road to elimination independence. And I think if I had postponed it, I might have missed the little window where he was super receptive and more life would have happened that we would have needed to work around anyway. Silly life, always interfering with my perfect plans!

Perfection, Breastfeeding, and My Guilt

I came across a post regarding perfection in breastfeeding recently. I don't relate to blog posts that often, but this one really resonated. Being 2 years past my decision to allow occasional foruma with my son, I had forgotten my internal struggle with guilt and doubt and perfection and stress. Getting over "perfection" in breastfeeding--exclusively breastfeeding--was the hardest pre-pregnancy expectation for me to let go.

I am not normally a perfectionist, I don't think, and I tried to go into motherhood without expectations, but I had a really hard time letting go of the "exclusively breastfed" standard. I think it is great when women can exclusively breastfeed, but the stress was too much for me. Perhaps it was the way my son ate (constantly and for a long time) or the fact that by staying home with him I wasn't forced to find a pumping schedule, but it took me several sessions of pumping to get enough to be able to be away from him for one feeding. Then after being gone from him, it would take several feedings and pumping sessions to get unengorged.

I was so determined that my son wouldn't have any formula, not one single drop, that I stressed myself out. We had a rough time breastfeeding. I had to reteach him how to latch after each growth spurt; I battled cracks and clogged ducts and mastitis. I stayed home with him, so pumping for a caregiver wasn't necessary, but I wanted milk on hand for the few times I was going to need to be away from him. I never got good at pumping and by about 6 months in, I could barely get anything out. I became obsessive about the milk I had stored, to the extent that I would give crazy instructions to baby sitters (my parents) so they wouldn't waste my precious milk. I made things harder and more stressful for me and others around me. That is definitely not healthy.

I don't remember when I accepted the fact that we might benefit from the possibility of using formula occasionally, but once I "gave in" the weight slowly lifted from my shoulders. I was holding myself to some high standard that I didn't hold anyone else to--I don't look at bottle-fed babies and think their parents are bad so why did I think I would be a bad mom for having sitters give my son formula if I ran out of pumped milk? It took a while for that inconsistency to sink in, but when it did I was able to give my son formula guilt free.

He was still breastfed until about 16 months and really didn't have much formula at all, but I stopped resenting breastfeeding and breastmilk because I wasn't bound by it. My parenting wasn't determined by feeding my son solely from my body, it was determined by how happy and healthy my family was. I was able to take a little time for myself (haircuts, brunch with friends occasionally) and not worry about finding time for multiple pumping sessions (without forcing my son to skip a feeding) to get enough milk for one bottle. Grandparents could watch him and bond with him without me there because they had a way to feed him and my husband could hang out with him on weekend mornings while I slept (which oddly enough provided me a few opportunities to pump, thereby increasing my little stash of frozen milk).

He had maybe a few dozen formula bottles over the period of a few months. So he wasn't exclusively breastfed, but he was fed. And he was (and is) happy, healthy, and amazing.

I am breastfeeding my daughter now. She doesn't really like bottles, but I have formula on hand for her just in case she needs something while I am gone. I pump when I need to, like when she skips a feeding or changes her schedule and I get engorged, but I don't have a huge stock pile of frozen milk. I have just enough to mix with her solid foods. We, too, are stress free and happy.

I love the simplicity of breastfeeding (note, I didn't say ease) and absolutely believe breast is best. I don't understand not at least giving breasfeeding a fair shot and taking it a day at a time. But formula is not evil and sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do. In the end, the only thing that matters is a happy, healthy baby--and I know plenty of happy, healthy formula-fed babies.