35, From Survive to Thrive

Last year, when I turned 34, I remember writing that, “Instead of being just fine, I want to thrive. I want 34 to be more of what I’ve been doing, more of what I want. More prioritizing of health! More physical movement! More ways to fill my soul! And maybe, just maybe, one more kid.”

Well, the kid part certainly happened. I’m realizing now just how contradictory my statement was. The last sentence completely nullifies my first three intentions. Having a kid, for me anyway, meant eating less healthy food, less exercise, and less soul-filling activities. Being pregnant meant spending the first three months bed-ridden, the next three months eating as many pastries I could get my hands on, and the last three months of it barely able to walk on a slight incline on the treadmill. Soul-filling activities were replaced with trying to fit in as much work as possible before my maternity leave. 34, in reality, was really about surviving.

Still in the infant phase with Gertie, I’m recognizing that 35 likely means more of the same survival skills 34 required. I barely leave the house and I don’t see that changing much this year. I try to cook healthy meals and exercise, but I’m not sure how much more time I can devote to the kitchen and gym, especially when I start working again. With two kids now, I have to cram even more into the same hours. Not an easy task.

As I go to bed on my last day of my 34th year, the laundry is piled up on the bed, wrinkled and unfolded. Toys and cushions are strewn across the living room floor from Bub building an obstacle course. (He succeeded. It’s definitely an obstacle to carry Gertie from one side of the room to the other now.) I find myself burnt out from responding to my three-year-old, who constantly wants my attention, and my two-month-old, who constantly needs my attention.

Maybe it’s okay that I don’t have the energy right now to come up with different intentions for this year. Maybe it’s okay that 35 is about letting things simply be, about letting myself live life without pressure for perfection or for big moments. Maybe 35 is embracing the imperfection, relishing the mess, and noticing the tiny beautiful things.

Baby G

Six weeks after giving birth and I still have a hard time believing I’m a mom of two kids. Kids. Kid, plural. Meaning, more than one kid.

As I look back on my Baby #2 musings, I had a lot of fears going in. Now that G is here, I can say that some of those fears still exist but only faintly. One fear I was able to instantly debunk was not feeling like I could love more than one kid. Before G, Bub was my everything. As soon as they placed her in my arms, my heart doubled. The love is different but equally distributed.

Bub and G are similar and different in many ways, what with being siblings and all. For one, G loves to be out of the house. She wants to see the world. Bub, being a pandemic baby, is more of a homebody. While we spent the first 18 months of Bub’s life holed up at home, Steve has already taken G on daily strolls around the neighborhood, to restaurants, to backyard barbecues, and to Grandma’s on the regular.

True to her behavior in the womb, G loves to move around. While Bub as a baby would happily nestle and sleep on my chest all day, G likes to change positions often and stretch out. She wants to be bounced and walked around. Her eyes flutter at her surroundings. Her lips turn into an “oh” as if to say “ohhhh, look at that”.

Born a pound and a half more than her brother, G doesn’t guzzle milk like he did. He was tiny and hungry all the time. She tends to graze and has been dubbed a “lazy nurser” by the lactation consultant for nursing a little bit before falling asleep and needing to be woken up to continue feeding.

Who knows what these observations mean. Perhaps nothing when it comes to their ultimate personalities. It’s been fun to comment and observe these two little humans we’ve been gifted with, no less.

Friends, family, and strangers have asked if we’re having more kids. If they had asked me the day she was born, I would have told them I might go for one more. But once the endorphins subsided and the exhaustion settled in, I decided that two was enough. I don’t want to pregnant again (I was so physically uncomfortable leading up to her delivery). While I’ll miss having a newborn, I want my life back. Well, at least more of my life back. I will never truly have my life back. Some part of my brain will always be thinking of my children. Taking care of a newborn is a 24/7, round-the-clock, always-on job. Holidays and sick days be damned. In a year, it’ll be nice to have more hours of the day to focus on myself again. In a few years, it’ll be easier for us to take a three-year old and a six-year old on trips. Having a third kid would mean restarting the clock on doing more fun things as a family. Not that we can’t have fun with a baby, it’s just that our adventures right now are more…scaled back.

I’m officially done having kids. That short chapter of my life is resolutely over. It makes me feel old somehow. As soon as G was born, I felt the clock ticking. Blink and she’ll be walking. Turn around and she’ll be in middle school. Wake up and she’ll be in college. Cherish every moment, I tell myself, because it’s all so temporary.

The Lost Daughter

I had to be persuaded to try for #2. Persistently. By Steve. While he made the case that giving Bub a sibling would make him less of an asshole and that having two was easier than one because they would someday play together, all I could think about was the toll having a baby would take on my body and how hard our lives already were with just one kid. Steve insisted he would do all the nighttime feedings and sleep training. He promised me the time and space to work out and take care of myself after the second baby arrived. Despite Steve’s best intentions, I knew the reality would be very different.

Because the truth is, having children is and always will be harder on the woman than the man. It’s biological. Steve will never know what it’s like to get up and pee four times in the middle of the night because a baby is sitting on his bladder. He’ll never know what it’s like to work full-time while struggling through first trimester nausea or third trimester insomnia. When the baby arrives, he’ll sympathize with my clogged milk ducts and hormone imbalance but won’t know how to help me. Because, I won’t know how he can help me.

Somehow, the logical side of my brain was overtaken by Steve’s persuasiveness and I got pregnant a month later. Steve was ecstatic, practically shouting our news from the rooftop. Though I was excited too, I was a bit more subdued knowing what was in store for me. Sure enough, the nausea kicked in a week after we found out.

With Bub, I waited until I was 20 weeks pregnant to find out his gender. I didn’t want to wait with this one, so I took a blood test at week 7 and found out we were having a girl.

A girl. When I saw the explosion of pink confetti on my computer screen, I immediately started sobbing. I wanted a boy so badly. I wanted another Bub. I wanted to be an all boy mom.

After a period of grieving, I realized that my disappointment was rooted in trauma and fear. Having a daughter would force me to confront the hardest parts of my upbringing. The fat-shaming, the insecurities, the constant fear of being assaulted by the opposite sex. Aspects of my childhood I try to forget.

I’m afraid I’ll fail at raising a daughter. I’m afraid she’ll be shallow, superficial, self-conscious. I’m worried she’ll be a lot like me. I’m worried I’ll have a hard time connecting with her or loving her as much as I love Bub.

On top of my emotional confrontation, the actual pregnancy has been so much tougher this round than the first. I was nauseated more and for longer. I experienced musculoskeletal pain, intense brain fog, and swelling. I mainly craved sugar and carbs and as a result, gained 20 pounds more than when I was pregnant with Bub.

I grimace when I hear people try to convince young moms that the second time around “is so much easier because your body has done it before”. Utter BS. It’s a hundred times harder because I’m uncomfortably pregnant and trying to keep up with my first kid. The only thing easier about having a second kid is that I’ve mentally been through a pregnancy and a delivery already, so I know slightly more about what to expect. I know not to stress about eating deli meat, drinking caffeine, or taking a Tylenol. I did all of these things, some every day.

Over the past eight months, people have shared with me their joys about having daughters and I’ve gradually grown more excited about having one of my own. I know it’ll be challenging to shield her from societal pressures. At first, it’ll be the ones which push her to wear pink, to dress up, to obsess about being a damsel in distress. At some point, it’ll be the ones which encourage her to be gentle, quiet, passive - to be liked above all else.

At the same time, I’m looking forward to helping her navigate this world and to love herself first and foremost. I’m committed to breaking the cycle of generational, cultural, and societal trauma that I experienced. I’m not afraid of her knowing my fears. I hope she sees someday how hard I’ve worked to overcome them and that she realizes she played a big part in my ability to do so.

Photos by Mo ♥️

Ode to Home

Ode to Oak Park,

Where we learned to live as a family -

Away from family.

The place that gave me space

To recover from postpartum anxiety.

The home Steve built with his bare hands,

Every finishing fearfully chosen,

Brands that supposedly promised

Safety for our children.

The home Bub learned to say his first words,

Where he learned to run and

Climb stairs.

Where he transformed from

Toddler to boy.

Organic parks with diversity -

Where our children could play

Barefoot and free.

Field, Lindbergh, Constitution.

Spacious and green without pesticide pollution.

Access to the city

With all its dirt, grime, and

Wondrous glory.

Sun, sand, Montrose Beach,

Field, Shedd, Planetarium -

Showed Bub how to be adventurous.

Dragonfruit, figs, tomatillos,

Asian pears, and purple potatoes.

New foods from the co-op

That opened up our tastebuds.

The library that broadened our minds,

Where Bub learned to love

Planes, trains, and automobiles,

But also dim sum, pumpkins,

And superheroes.

Thank you, Oak Park,

For two years of learnings and,

Moments of pure bliss.

Our first home as a family,

Where Bub learned to piss

On the potty.

I arrived terrified of the new

And leave stronger, slightly wiser -

Open to the unknown

With a now calmer view.

Thank you.

SUMMER 2021

SUMMER 2022

SUMMER 2023

Ever Last

There are countless “firsts” when it comes to children. Firstborn, first steps, first word. Yet for all the firsts, there are just as many lasts. Last time I bounced him on my knee, last time I spoon-fed him, last time I picked him up. I find the “lasts” less momentous, unnoticeable even, but I want to remember them as just as pivotal.

When I was a kid, I would cry the night before my birthdays. Sad I was getting older, sad it was my last night to be this age. Even seven-year old me knew that childhood was fleeting. I’m realizing now that this sadness was an example of the anxiety I carried and my unhealthy propensity to hang on to the past.

Slowly but surely, I’m learning how to think about the past without dwelling and to enjoy the present without worrying about the future. With this balance in mind, I knew this photoshoot would be our last as a family of three. I wanted it to be a memento of how much joy we’ve had together and how much we’ve grown. It used to come from a place of sadness but now it comes from a place of appreciation…and excited anticipation for what’s to come.

Thank you, Viceth, for the beautiful photos!