mama

Boring Bits

I was on my own with Bub for a couple days this week. I used to get really nervous being on my own with him but lately, I’ve enjoyed it. I used to get anxious about taking him out of the house on my own, finding enough things for him to do so he doesn’t get bored with me, and not having Steve around to give me a break. But the past couple times I’ve solo-parented, Bubba and I have fallen into a simple routine.

That’s not to say the anxiety doesn’t knock on my door every now and then. When I’m on my own, a little voice pops in my head asking me if I’ve locked the back door or turned off the burner. I second-guess myself for a little too long on whether I’ve poured milk into the dirty cup we used for our paintbrushes. Not having another adult around can be hard.

Despite the little anxieties, I’m reminding myself that when it’s just me and him, the pros outweigh the cons. This is my special time with him. I soak it all in because I know this precious toddler time is fleeting. I relish the slowness of the hours, the joy in the mundane, the boring bits of our lives.

Cuddling, cooking, carefree at the park - this is how I’ll remember my solo days with him.

Giving Grace

I love fall. When you can smell the leaves instead of the grass. When the wind is more blustery than breezy. When you relish the sun’s warmth on your face rather than hide from it.

Big life events tend to happen to me in the fall. It makes me nostalgic for the start of a new school year. Fall reminds me of when I met and fell in love with Steve. Gosh, 17 years ago. It reminds me of when we bought our first home together and when we brought home Buddha. Oddly, major career changes would take place for me around September. And before I know it, it’s my birthday in October - the dawn of a new age.

Since the pandemic started and Bubba was born, fall reminds me that everything is temporary. I’m learning to soak up the little things. Bub’s vocabulary is getting better each day. He’s saying “yes” and “more” with real intention. He tries to repeat the words we say and was really close to saying “banana” the other day. At the park, he is more opinionated about when he wants to slide down the slide or swing on the swings. I can no longer plop him where I want him.

I’m reminded that babies don’t stay babies. Nobody has to tell me how quickly they grow up because I know. It’s happening right before my very eyes and while I’m heartbroken I can’t freeze time, I’m in awe of the transformation I get to witness. How he learned to do a somersault. The way he picks himself back up after a tumble. He is so cute it hurts. It hurts because I know he won’t be this cute forever. Next fall, he will be speaking in full sentences and running faster than I can catch him.

Despite the beauty of watching him grow, I wasn’t expecting the transition into toddlerhood to require so much patience and true parenting. There are moments when he’s throwing a tantrum and I literally do not know what to do. Sometimes, I say or do the wrong thing. Other times, I’m able to help him understand. When I get fed up and overreact, I feel like a horrible mother and I beat myself up for not being perfect. But toddlers, they are so gracious, so forgiving. He doesn’t know what perfection means. Maybe to him, I am perfect. He never stops loving me, no matter what my behavior or reaction is. He gives me grace. Why can’t I give myself some?

When big emotions happen, whether it’s me or him, I’m reminded to slow down. To take a breath. To let him figure out how to put on his shoes. To let him watch tree branches in the wind. To let us both observe the little things.

After all, it’s the little things that build meaning in our lives.

There is no such thing as a perfect parent so just be a real one.
— Sue Atkins

Every day, I hit the ground running. Harder than I ever thought I could. I throw up my hair in a scrunchie, put on my running rotation of sweats, and barely pause to look in the mirror. I tell myself that I should make an effort, to make myself happy. But then, I hear a little voice call for “mama” and I run to it.

I have to remind myself that this is just a season of life. That raising this kiddo is just a blip in my lifetime. It’ll pass by in the blink of an eye, and I know I’ll miss it so very much. I pray that the hustle, the worrying, the exhaustion - that it’s all worth it. That some day when he’s older, he’ll think back on his childhood and remember it with joy and fondness. When we’re sitting around the dinner table years from here and my hair is completely gray and I’m moving a little slower, I hope we laugh and relive the beautiful memories we’re creating right now.

The Motherload

As my baby reaches a year old, I'm reflecting on the things I've learned over the past 365 days. Motherhood has brought me depths of joy I didn’t know were possible. It’s also repeatedly pushed me over the edge, testing my patience and sanity. Motherhood is relentless and often feels heavy. Physically, it has changed me. My hips wider from birthing him. My shoulders broader from holding him. My hair thinner from nursing him.

I wish someone had told me that taking care of a baby is really really hard, that I won’t enjoy every single moment, that it’s a huge learning curve and no one gets it right the first time. I wish someone had told me that it’s okay to long for the life I had pre-baby.

I think back to a year ago and I can’t believe some of the things I did or didn’t do. I’ve experienced too many lessons to count, but these three themes continued to pop up for me over the year:

Everyone has an opinion but focus on my own.

When Bub was born, my peanut gallery got louder and bigger. Family, friends, media outlets, hospitals, consultants, parenting books. Everyone had an opinion about everything, and it was difficult for me to sift through the information I actually wanted to heed.

Here’s an example of me wishing I had listened to my gut right away rather than what experts were recommending at the time. When Bub was starting to eat solids, family and institutions recommended rice cereal and jarred purees. I was uncomfortable with the idea, wondering why I couldn't offer purees I made myself. Convenience, time-savings, fortified foods, they said. I begrudgingly fed Bub rice cereal for a few meals before putting my foot down. Rice cereal didn’t seem very nutritious to me, and making his food was something I wanted to do and that I enjoyed doing. That’s it, no more rice cereal. I don’t care what anyone else thinks. I’m glad I eventually listened to my intuition. A few months later, the FDA reported high levels of arsenic in rice cereal.

My point in sharing this isn’t to shame parents who feed their babies rice cereal or jarred purees. It’s to encourage myself and others to listen to our gut and stick to it, no matter what we’re hearing from family, friends, or “experts”. I shouldn’t have to justify my parenting decisions. Everyone’s parenting journey is unique and their own to figure out.

The older I get, the more I realize that “adults” have no idea what they are doing. It’s a scary thought, but the rose-colored glasses are off. I cringe when I hear people say “this worked for me and my kids turned out fine”. What works for you may not work for me. What works for me may not work for you. And “fine” is subjective.

When I became a parent, I started to notice the toxic traits I grew up with and was worried I would pass them on to my child. I have to work really hard to quiet the inner voice in my head, which is often judgmental and anxious and sounds a lot like my mom.

Everyone has an opinion, even my own inner critic.

depression is not my fault.

During my pregnancy, I anticipated having depression after giving birth. I assumed I would have it. I anticipated it hitting me like a ton of bricks. I pictured myself struggling to get out of bed, sobbing for no reason, feeling complete despair. But what actually happened was something more subtle, something that I didn’t recognize as postpartum depression until I took a closer look.

For me, PPD was triggered by my period while breastfeeding (thank you, fluctuating hormones) and looked like uncontrollable anger. Right before my period hit, I experienced the most intense mood swings and raged over the smallest things. I had zero patience for a crying baby or anything my husband did. At first, my symptoms simmered on the periphery. I felt exhausted and was easily agitated. They quickly bubbled over and before I knew it, I wanted to throw dishes and divorce my husband.

I felt possessed, powerless, alone.

Then, I felt overwhelmingly guilty and heartbroken.

The first few times I experienced these episodes I told myself they were because I was tired and stressed. I told myself I needed to control my emotions better, to manage my anger better, to be a better person. It wasn’t until I realized they were triggered by my period that I understood them as something truly beyond my control and not my fault.

Self-care is easier said than done.

Panic attacks, uncontrollable rage, depression. I worry they’ll appear at any time, catching me off guard and forcing me to ride a wave of emotions. Anxiety and depression often sneak up when I’m feeling the happiest, buzzing in my ear like a mosquito and ruining a joyful moment.

To better prepare myself for these sneak attacks, I’ve had to prioritize self-care, which often looks like an extra hour of sleep, a bath on a Sunday, or a workout sesh in the evening. I used to think self-care had to be a big thing like a weekend getaway to Palm Springs or an afternoon at the spa (both of which sound exhausting to get to right now). I’ve learned that self-care can be as quick as five mindful breaths or a 15 minute break from my desk. It can be speaking to myself with compassion and quieting anxious thoughts in my head with patience. Sometimes it means turning off TV and social media after Bub goes to bed so I can be in bed myself by 10 pm. Other days, it means ignoring my inbox and watching a movie instead. Self-care looks a lot like saying no and being okay with it.

I grew up with self-sacrificing parents. They put providing for their family above all else, working 12 hour days, seven days a week, 363 days a year. As immigrants, they sacrificed their own wellbeing in favor of their children’s. But, I lost out on parents who enjoyed life, who were there for the little things, who lived life with balance. I was taught to revere my parents for their hard work, frugality, and sacrifice. I was taught to embody the same traits. And those feelings of guilt and obligation - they perpetuate and get passed down to the next generation. Self-sacrificing parents often fall into a martyr mentality. A vicious cycle of taking on too much and constantly complaining about it later. It took me a long time to realize that good parents don’t sacrifice themselves for their children. Good parents take care of themselves.

I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning how to sail my mothership.

What I’ve learned is that having a baby can bring up memories of my own childhood. While I’m processing how to parent him in the present, I’m also processing my past. I’ve had to sift through what I want to pass on to my child and what I don’t. And one of the things I don’t want to pass on is the burden of tradition and obligation. To do things because it’s what we’ve always done or because other people think I have to. Tradition, for the right reasons, I can understand. To question tradition and obligation, I welcome it.

I look back on this past year and can’t help but feel proud of the parenting milestones I’ve accomplished. Motherhood can be exhausting, frustrating, and dispiriting. But it can also be joy and light and laughter. Motherhood is love in action. To be able to keep going, I need to keep myself strong and happy.

You can’t pour from an empty cup. Take care of yourself first.
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Got Milk

Breastfeeding. One of the most stressful aspects of having a baby. Produce too little and I feel like a failure. Produce too much and I feel obligated to pump and store it. Produce just enough and I worry about whether it is, in fact, enough.

Breastfeeding has been a long road for me. I struggled with low supply from the very beginning. Born a mere six pounds, Bub was constantly hungry and I couldn’t produce milk fast enough. I would nurse him and think he was full only to watch him chug five ounces of formula an hour later. I felt like I was starving my baby.

When I looked for advice, I was met with a barrage of opinions:

  • “Pump every two hours religiously.”

  • "Don’t bother pumping. Just nurse around-the-clock.”

  • “Eat lactation cookies.”

  • “Take fenugreek supplements.”

  • “Eat animal protein.”

  • “Drink lots of almond milk.”

  • “Get eight hours of sleep.”

How one gets eight hours of sleep while pumping every two hours is beyond me. Needless to say, the advice out there can be confusing and conflicting.

The endless counsel was fueled by pressure from parenting books to breastfeed:

  • “Breastfeed for a year and you’ll have a healthier, happier, smarter baby.”

  • “Breastfeeding is the best thing for your baby.”

  • “Every mother should be able to breastfeed.”

  • “Your baby should drink only breastmilk for the first six months of life.”

And lastly, there was self-induced pressure unintentionally brought on by friends and family. Breastfeeding seemed so easy for everyone else. Producing milk for my baby quickly became an obsession. I set alarms to wake up and pump every two hours throughout the night. I would sometimes pump for an hour, hoping it would help the supply and demand. I would feel guilty and stressed when I didn’t pump on time. I felt like a letdown when my baby clearly needed more milk than I could make.

A few weeks after Bub was born, I discovered that I was a formula baby. My mother didn’t even bother breastfeeding because she went back to work three days after I was born. My aunt struggled to breastfeed her children. She tried for months and was never able to. Maybe low supply is genetic. My mother taunted me for not being able to produce enough milk and yet, she didn’t even bother to try with me. The audacity. The hypocrisy. The cycle of shame needs to end.

Six months into breastfeeding and I started to have symptoms of postpartum depression. They were triggered by my period and showed up as uncontrollable rage. Right before my period, I would experience the most intense mood swings and get angry over the smallest things. The rage felt like an out-of-body experience.

In the back of my mind, I knew stopping breastfeeding would likely stabilize my hormones and my mood swings. And yet, I was determined to provide whatever milk I could for my baby. Even if it meant only 3 ounces a day. I kept trying to nurse, trying to pump.

Then one Sunday in February, my supply dropped significantly. Down to droplets. My period came. No mood swings. Physically, I was feeling more like myself. Emotionally, I was mournful over not being able to produce anymore milk. My goal was to do it until his first birthday.

And so at the end of February, my breastfeeding journey comes to an end. Almost 11 months of obsessing over milk supply, taking breaks throughout the day to pump, washing fiddly pump parts. Suddenly, I don’t have to think about it anymore. I can eat and drink whatever I want. I have time back in my day. I can let Steve feed Bub with formula. My hair can finally have a chance to grow back. I’m. Free. But why does freedom feel so bittersweet?

Because I’ll miss feedings with my baby, that special bonding time. I’ll miss watching YouTube videos during my pumping sessions, the only break I had throughout the day. I’ll miss having an excuse to consume extra calories. Breastfeeding was my connection to those early days - as painful as they were - when we first brought him home and I was figuring out this whole ‘feeding my baby with my breasts’ thing.

What I’ll take away from this experience is just how incredible the female body is. The fact that I would feel a letdown when I heard my newborn cry. The fact that there is a feedback loop between my baby and my breasts that tells my body how much milk my baby needs. When nursing or pumping, I could feel the nutrients being drained from my upper body. Mothers literally give their all to their babies.

I am so proud of my body for taking care of my baby.

My breastfeeding journey in numbers

  • Months I breastfed/pumped: 10.75

  • Hours breastfeeding/pumping: 900+

  • Number of hours spent washing pump parts: 300+

  • Times Steve or I spilled a bottle of breastmilk: 4

  • Times I’ve cried over spilled milk: 4

  • How many ounces I pumped the first time: 2

  • How many ounces I pumped the last time: .25

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Highly Sensitive Mama (HSM)

All my life I’ve been sensitive to pain and intense scenes, whether in films or books. They stick with me for weeks, even years. I run out of the room during violent scenes in Good Fellas. I cover my eyes for most of The Grudge. I accidentally cut my finger with a knife and writhe on the kitchen floor. I pass out at the sight of blood.

I get easily overwhelmed by bright lights, strong smells, and loud noises. Nightclubs and EDM concerts are my worst nightmare.

Caffeine makes me jittery. Multi-tasking makes me feel frazzled.

I thought there was something wrong with me. I thought there was something wrong with being so sensitive. I was afraid of being labeled “crazy”, “irrational”, an “emotional female”. My entire life, I wish I were tougher, more brazen, less emotional.

Several years ago, I discovered the term “Highly Sensitive Person” and instantly connected to it. Similar to the feeling I had when I read Quiet and discovered I was an introvert, the term “Highly Sensitive Person” (HSP) made me feel understood and less alone.

I wish I had known about HSPs in college, when I was trying to figure out the right career path for me. Actually, I wish I had known about being an introvert and an HSP in high school, when deciding which colleges to apply to. I probably would have fared better at a small liberal arts college than the big city university I ended up attending. I probably could have avoided years in consulting when working in chaotic environments and managing clients sucked the life out of my soul. In short, I wish I had done this inner work in my teens and not the hard way throughout my twenties.

But, I’m constantly doing inner work. When I became a mother last year, it took me nine months after having a baby to realize my list of sensitivities had doubled. As an HSP, all my senses are on high alert, all the time. The thoughts in my head are constantly running. As a mom, the thoughts seem to run faster.

The day we brought Bubba home, it was sensory overload for me. The sound of never-ending crying overwhelmed me. Being near sharp objects or anything that could harm him reminded me of how I’d feel when watching a violent movie. Tragic news stories of children made me sob.

Motherhood requires me to multi-task more, making me stressed and snap at loved ones. The noise, the outbursts, the neediness, the decision-making, the accountability. It never ends. I love my baby but damn, parenting is hard.

On top of all this, my postpartum body goes through all the things and when my own basic needs aren’t met, like eating and sleeping, I feel the repercussions tenfold.

Perpetually overstimulated with little to no break, I risk erupting and acting out in anger at any moment. I feel bad that those closest to me bear the brunt.

As Bub gets older, I find myself trying to talk to him and entertain him all day. I’ve never had to engage someone for so long. Every. Single. Day. The introvert in me is tired from having to be always “on”. The HSP in me is overworked from reacting to tantrums and keeping him from hurting himself.

It’s hard to feel like a good parent when I am the one crying from being overstimulated, not my child. It’s hard to feel like a worthy parent when I feel angry and anxious while my baby sweetly lays his head on my chest.

Highly Sensitive Mama

When the term “Highly Sensitive Mama” (HSM) came to mind, it brought me comfort and peace. It made it easier to accept my temperament and come to terms with the fact that I’m not like other moms. And that’s okay.

Hearing my baby cry is too much for me. Interacting with my baby nonstop is too exhausting for me. My patience is easily tried, my reserves easily dried.

I’ve had to reframe that time for myself isn’t selfish. It’s healthy for my family, for everyone around me, and for me. I need to consciously give myself permission to pause and take a break. I’m learning to trust Steve to take care of Bub when I need time to myself. I’m learning to tell myself that it’s okay that I’m not there for every single thing he does. Time apart will make me more present and more energized when we’re together.

On the upside, being an HSM allows me to empathize with my child more deeply. His emotions become mine. When he is upset, I too feel his pain. I also feel positive emotions with the same force as negative ones, meaning I feel intense joy and gratitude during all the happy moments of being a mother. And thirdly, as an HSM, I tend to be introspective - eager to learn from mistakes and keep in mind what works for me.

I don’t see myself hosting mega birthday parties or joining the school PTA. I won’t be buying mountains of gifts for Christmas or taking my family to Disney. But, I’ll be the one taking him on quiet hikes in the woods. I’ll be the one ready to read anytime he wants. I’ll be there whenever he needs a sounding board. And that’s okay.

resources that helped me

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