Split

As a parent, I am feeling constantly split these days. If I’m not with Bub, then I’m with G. If I’m not with G, then I’m with Bub. If I’m with my kids, then I want to be by myself. If I’m by myself, then I want to be with my kids.

On a good day, feeling split may look like spending quality time with G in the morning while Bub is at preschool and spending quality time with Bub when he gets home. I feel balanced and content with both kids. On a rough day, feeling split may look like a sleep-deprived me trying to wash bottle parts while G is screaming and Bub is yelling, “Mom! Mom! Look at me! Look at me!”. I feel over-stimulated, burnt out, and about to erupt.

Having two kids is like having two conversations at the same time. All the time. Bub, being verbal and mobile, is usually the loudest voice in the room. When I’m playing with G, my focus breaks away to the Tasmanian Devil racing around me, yelling “Mom! Mom! Look at me!”. Compared to when Bub was a baby, I don’t have all the time in the world to pay attention to G and that makes me feel guilty.

When I do finally get time with G and she is snuggled against my chest, I get emotional thinking about how fast she’s growing and want to hold her forever. Yet at the same time, I have a strong desire to get up and do something for myself - be it get a drink of water, go to the bathroom, check my email, sleep horizontally, anything. Such is my life. I am endlessly torn.

I try to satisfy both and give her a few extra squeezes before laying her down in her crib. Because I know now that I’ll be a better mom if I give myself a break.

Parenting, I've learned, is all about trade-offs. It’s about feeling conflicting emotions simultaneously. It’s celebrating firsts and lasts all together. It’s finding the discipline to focus on the child in front of me instead of getting distracted with the grocery list. And, it often requires being a hypocrite. I am judged and constantly judging. How is it that I feel dead inside and like I’m thriving at the same time? I am both living the dream and losing the dreamer in me.

This poem by Karen McMillan called “Mother of All Contradictions” nails it:

I’m so happy with my choices

Yet question them daily

I’ve never felt so accomplished

Then suddenly, failing

I’m excited for the future

Yet always looking back

I’m bursting at the seams

With all the things that I lack

I’m vacant

But always so full of you

I’ve learned so much

But still don’t have a clue

I’m close to my limit

But can’t get enough

I’m put upon, I’m passive

But undeniably tough

I’m gentle

But can’t help shouting

I’m certainly

Doubting

I’m oblivious

But care, so much, what you think

I’m the steady, stable one

Always teetering on the brink

I’m unemployed

Yet have never worked so bloody hard

I’m that happy smiling soul

Who’s full of mard

I’m permanently skint

But have never felt richer

I’m mindfully looking

At the bigger picture

I need a break

But always want you close

I’m invisible

But have never felt so exposed

I give others advice

I can’t seem to follow

I find yours, especially

Hard to swallow

I complain that I’m lonely

But just want to be alone

I’m positively grateful

But love a good moan

I’m absent

Yet ever-present

I’m dull

But effervescent

I’m tired

Yet enlivened

I’m loving this

But can’t abide it

I’m strong in my beliefs

Yet lack conviction

I’m reality TV

And a work of fiction

I’m the Mother

of all contradiction

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

• “Are You Highly Sensitive” assessment

• “The gentle power of highly sensitive people” TED talk

• “How to stop feeling anxious about anxiety” TED talk

• “Handling Difficult Emotions” guided meditation by Vanessa Loder

• “Five Minutes of Self Compassion” guided meditation by Lisa Abramson

Good Is Enough

I’m the type of person who throws her hands up in the air and gives up if something doesn’t go perfectly. “Why do anything if you don’t strive for perfection,” I used to wonder.

Then, I became a mom and very quickly learned that perfection in motherhood simply doesn’t exist.

When I packed my hospital bag to deliver Bubba, I only packed him a swaddle to wear. How does one put a baby in a car seat when he’s only wrapped in a SWADDLE? Pretty sure I blushed when I realized my naivety and had to ask the nurse if we could keep the hospital onesie he was in. She reassured me that this happens all the time and that the nurses keep a box of new clothes for moments like this. Within minutes she was back with a brand new outfit for Bubba to go home in.

“Don’t worry, I never pre-washed clothes with my kids.” She saw the look of hesitation on my face. I didn’t see why I couldn’t just keep Bubba in the onesie he was wearing or wrap him in the swaddle and walk home. Forget the car seat, I thought. I would rather do either of those things than put him in clothing full of factory chemicals. 

“Thank you so much,” Steve said, kindly accepting the gift from the nurse. I snapped back into reality. That moment was my first lesson in letting go of perfection as a mother. Steve and I fumbled our way through putting clothes on a day-old baby and buckled him into his car seat. I kicked myself for not bringing him a clean outfit from home and debated whether to give him a bath right away. Guilt crept over me.

Since bringing him home, my mind has been churning worries nonstop: is this organic, is this plastic-free, has this been washed, is he too close to the wifi or microwave, is that glitter on his head, what kind of chemicals are in those diapers, did I wash my hands before holding him…I wish I could put this kid in a bubble.

Despite how exhausted I am, I lie awake at night crying and stressing over the mistakes I’ve already made as a mother: using tap water for his formula his first few weeks, placing him too close to our wireless devices when he was tiny, accidentally pouring bath water into his mouth, the list is endless. I make mistakes all day, everyday.

With all the toxins in this world, I’m at my wits’ end worrying about keeping my bairn safe and healthy. With all my worrying, I worry about keeping him happy from my anxieties. Worrying about worrying is worrisome.

“Is it okay to not strive for perfection,” I wonder, “Is good enough?”

“Don’t let perfect be the enemy of good,” I hear a voice in my head reply back.

I can still be a good mother even if I’m not perfect. I can still be a good mother if I accidentally make a mistake. I can still be a good mother if I feed my baby formula. I can still be a good mother if I spend time during the day doing something for myself.

As I write this blog post, I can’t remember the last time I showered, there is a pile of dirty dishes in the sink, half the laundry is folded and half of it is still in the dryer, my pump parts need to be washed, which reminds me...I need to pump. I haven’t eaten dinner and I need to hydrate. There are a million things on my to-do list that I haven’t done but for now, I’m going to hydrate, eat, and pump. “Good enough for today,” I tell myself.

Motherhood: The First Month

The Birth

Bub’s birth was, dare I say it, a fun experience for me. Of course, there were tears (and tears), lots of physical discomfort (thank you, contractions and a horrendous IV), and lots of worries (#covid19). But, the positive moments I had far outweigh all of the pain.

A couple days before Bub was born, I went in for a scheduled ultrasound and doctor’s appointment. Throughout my pregnancy, he had been measuring on the smaller side but I was told not to worry. Except this time. This time, I was told Bub’s stomach was measuring a few weeks behind the rest of his body. Because he was growing asymmetrically, our doctor recommended that we induce labor that evening and get the baby out as soon as possible. I went from thinking I still had two weeks to prep before the baby was due to...this baby might come today. 

Despite feeling nervous, Steve and I spent the rest of the day trying to prepare as much as we could: packing a hospital bag, dropping the dog off, figuring out how to set up the car seat. We were supposed to be at the hospital at 9:30 pm. As the sun set, I tried not to obsess about the fact that our lives were about to change forever and that the next time we were home, we’d have a BABY with us.

As we walked into the hospital, I laughed at all the stuff Steve carried: a pillow, a comforter, a bag full of snacks, a duffel bag, and the breast pump backpack. We looked like we were going to sleepaway camp.

No joke, the hardest part of Bub’s birth for me was getting an IV. Had I not been lying in my hospital bed already, I definitely would have fainted. Throughout the night, our nurse would check in to see how my contractions were coming along and each time, it was my IV that I’d complain about. To help take my mind off of it, she ended up wrapping it with hot pink medical tape that’s typically given to little kids. Babying my IV became the running joke during my hospital stay, and I am in no way embarrassed about it.

My original birth plan was to give birth naturally with no medication. I laugh about that now because I was given Cervidil immediately after my IV was put in. After 12 hours of being on Cervidil, I was administered Pitocin. Ten hours later, I got an epidural. My doctor manually “broke my water” and a few hours later, I went into active labor. So much for having a birth plan. I honestly assumed that because my mom had relatively quick and easy deliveries when it came to my sister and me, I would experience the same. Not the case.

Once I was in labor, Steve and our nurses were the ultimate team. When I felt a contraction coming, Steve took my left leg while two nurses grabbed my right leg. DEEP BREATH. PUSH, PUSH, PUSH. QUICK INHALE. PUSH, PUSH, PUSH. QUICK INHALE. PUSH, PUSH, PUSH. They cheered and yelled words of encouragement. I felt like Lebron James at the free throw line. I was in labor for two hours but it felt like 10 minutes. I was so glad I got the epidural - it allowed me to enjoy every moment of my delivery experience. Without it, I would have only focused on how much physical pain I was in.

#TMI I was told that the biggest challenge with a vaginal birth was pushing out the baby’s head and shoulders. After that, he would slip right out. And, he did. He literally slid right into the doctor’s hands. 

The hospital room immediately buzzed with activity. I looked around me and was in awe. Aside from Steve, the room was filled with women. Our doctor was stitching me up. One nurse was weighing Bub (6 pounds, 2 ounces). Another was removing my epidural. Two nurses were helping with cleanup. It was one of the few times in my life that I recall witnessing smart, compassionate women expertly doing what they do best, confident in their knowledge and skills, and working in beautiful synchrony. I felt inspired and am so proud our baby was welcomed into the world by a team of strong women.

With a healthy Bub in my arms, I suddenly realized that I now needed to keep him alive. And, I had no idea where to start. Thank goodness for the nurses we had. During the next 24 hours at the hospital, our nurses would teach me how to properly hold him, nurse him, change him, and bathe him. This was my first hospital stay ever and throughout it, I experienced firsthand what a godsend nurses are. Can we start calling them angels sent from heaven?

When it was time to leave the hospital, I was reluctant. I didn’t want to say goodbye to our round-the-clock care and amazing nurses. The 400 square feet hospital room was my home for the past three days and the only world Bub knew outside the womb. For three days, I was sealed off from the outside world with only one mission: to give birth to a healthy baby. Nothing else and no one else mattered. It was freeing to be able to ignore every other responsibility in my life. Now with mission accomplished, it was time to face the outside world and I did not feel ready. I wanted more time in my hospital room bubble.

The First Month

No book, YouTube video, or class could have prepared me for motherhood. There is no manual for my specific baby, no teacher I can turn to with all the answers. I often feel like I am in over my head, and I’m up at all hours of the night thinking to myself:

How do I pull a onesie over his head? What’s the best way to bottle feed him? Why is he still crying even though I’ve changed, fed, and burped him? Why does he hate sleeping in his bassinet? Why does he fart so much? Does he have colic? Why isn’t my breast milk coming in as much as I thought it would?

So many questions. So much googling. And those are just some of the questions I had about taking care of a newborn. I’m also trying to figure out the new postpartum me. My body, my hormones, my sleep schedule. They’re all changing and at times, I feel really overwhelmed. I cry at the drop of a hat. I fall asleep on command. I sweat the small stuff. I get triggered easily. I can’t remember the last time I had a good laugh. I feel isolated. Top that off with a screaming baby, showerless days, and sore boobs. Postpartum life is all of the things.

Being maternal is pretty foreign to me. I wouldn’t say I have a strong “maternal instinct”. Fortunately, my other half has parenthood down to an art form. Steve has taught me how to put clothes on Bub, how to bottle feed and burp him properly. Steve is the one who knew to monitor for jaundice right after Bub was born. Steve never loses his cool, even when it’s 3 am and Bub has pooped and peed all over himself. I wish I had Steve’s confidence and parental instinct. But, I’m grateful I have a partner who has the patience to teach me how to take care of our baby and who does his best to cheer me up when I feel like a failure of a mother.

And, I often feel like a failure. When Bub is wailing at the top of his lungs in the middle of the night, I get flustered. I just want him to stop crying as fast as possible. Easier said than done when he’s spit up and peed all over the changing table and all the swaddles are in the laundry I haven’t had a chance to wash. I’m constantly worried I’m not doing something the right way. I’m scared I’m not holding his soft head correctly. I’m terrified I’m going to break him somehow.

For the first month, our lives have been broken into two-hour increments. Warm up his bottle, feed him, burp him, change his diaper, try to get him to sleep. Then, eat and hydrate ourselves, pump (for me), take the dog out (for him), clean dirty bottles and pump parts, maybe do laundry. Repeat.

Our new routine has been hard to get used to. Every day, I feel some form of frustration, exhaustion, and anxiety. Every night, I feel a sense of dread knowing Bub will likely fuss every 90 minutes. The truth is, there are moments when I think to myself, “Can I give the baby back? I’m not cut out for this.” There are moments when I miss my life before the baby.

And yet, I love my baby more than anything. I want to remember everything, every little thing he does: the way he cracks a smile after chugging a bottle of milk, the way he coos in his sleep, the way his tiny fingers wrap around my index one, the way he looks around him with such curiosity and sometimes a furrowed brow. I’m both eager for him to be able to hold his head up on his own and asking time to stand still so I can keep him this size in my arms forever. As his mama, I’m learning that there are tears of joy and sadness when he reaches each milestone.

One month in and I’m still getting used to calling myself “Mom” and thinking of myself in terms of “Parent”. Sometimes my mind still thinks I’m pregnant. Sometimes I wake up, don’t know what day it is, and forget for a hot second that I have a baby. Sometimes I make plans in my head only to remind myself that I can’t because of how unpredictable he is.

But every day, I learn something new. About him. About myself. I’m learning to embrace all the feels, all the cries, all the smiles. I’m learning to let some things go, like cleaning floors and tidying up the house. I’m learning to ask for help, even if it’s just a glass of water. But most of all, I’m learning to slow down and be more present. I’m not a perfect mom, nor will I ever be, but if I can show my baby love and give him the time and attention he deserves, maybe I can do this mom thing.