My BF Era

This month, I officially stopped breastfeeding. After nearly nine months of constantly thinking about when to breastfeed or pump, stressing about emptying my breasts every two hours, sitting at the pump for hours, it’s so strange to be done. My brain hasn’t quite caught up with my body.

I’ve never been able to produce enough milk for my children so that they were exclusively breastfed. Sessions with a lactation consultant didn’t improve my supply. My children have always needed to supplement with formula. With my firstborn, I didn’t anticipate my low supply and beat myself up about it. With my secondborn, I expected it and had a much healthier attitude about feeding my baby formula.

That being said, while G was in my belly, I told Steve I’d be fine with her being completely formula-fed from the beginning - because breastfeeding is literally and figuratively so draining on my body. When she was born, I thought, ‘Maybe I’ll give this breastfeeding thing a go because I probably won’t be able to breastfeed for very long anyway.’ After a couple months, I thought, ‘I’ll keep going until it’s very clear my body is done.’ Three months passed, then five months passed and I thought, ‘Maybe now I’ll stop.’ At this point, my milk supply had dipped significantly. But, I kept pumping. Something innate in me wanted to try to squeeze as much milk out of me as I possibly could for my baby (cue martyr syndrome). Even as month 8 crept up and my body was barely producing any milk, I kept sitting at my desk, tied to the pump – trying to convince my body to keep producing. I kept trying to breastfeed G despite her biting, pawing, and tearing away when she realized as soon as she latched that there was nothing but droplets. Whereas Bub would happily comfort-nurse, G was less inclined and quickly grew impatient if there wasn’t any milk for her to drink.

Honestly, towards the end, I too started growing tired of it all. I was tired of feeling guilty for not pumping or nursing around-the-clock. If I were to listen to “expert” advice about pumping every two hours to keep my milk production going, I’d be pumping or nursing for 6-8 hours a day. That left little time for anything else, challenging when I have another kid to take care of. Breastfeeding is an unpaid, often unseen, full-time job I’m glad I don’t have to do anymore, especially because the juice really wasn’t worth the squeeze given my sad supply.

I was emotional during my last nursing sessions with G. I was emotional feeding her the last bottle of breastmilk that I pumped. I’ll miss the special bonding time breastfeeding provided G and me. I’ll miss the excuse to “take a break” at my desk to pump. But mostly, I was so emotional because this is the last time that I’ll ever breastfeed a baby. My breastfeeding era is officially over.

A part of me held on to breastfeeding for as long as I could because stopping symbolized my baby not needing me anymore. I wasn’t ready to face the fact that she is quickly growing out of being a baby. My last baby.

Breastfeeding has made me appreciate my body in utterly new ways. It’s made me feel anger and frustration towards my body. It’s taught me that I really don’t know my body at all and that no one really does because women’s bodies aren’t researched enough. I don’t understand how my body produced milk. When I thought I’d produce more milk, I didn’t. When I least expected my body to produce milk, it surprised me with more. I don’t understand dysphoric milk ejection reflex and why I felt depressed every time I pumped. I don’t understand why when I stopped breastfeeding, I had horrible intense mood swings. I don’t understand my hormones and as a result, I feel like I barely know myself. My breastfeeding days may be over but my journey to better understanding myself continues.

“In terms of brains, we may be first among mammals, but we are mammals nonetheless, and as such we cannibalize our mothers in order to live.”

— Betty Fussell, "Eat, Live, Love, Die"

Wrong Turns

For the most part, I hate surprises. It makes sense given that I’m an anxious perfectionist who likes preparation and control. Steve knows this, which is why I was surprised when he decided to surprise me with a weekend getaway with my best friend from college. This might be the one surprise that immediately brought me immense joy and excitement. We both knew I desperately needed a reset.

I also needed to celebrate. I wanted to celebrate my officially being done with breastfeeding, my surviving Bub’s first year in school, and my first time being away as a mom of two.

It was a glorious weekend with a dear friend who has known me since I was in my teens. Eating delicious food, walking around Chicago on an absolutely gorgeous Saturday, and having soulful conversations. We made memories I want to relive over and over again in my head.

Throughout the weekend, a theme continued to pop up. I kept taking turns that I initially thought were wrong but were ultimately the right ones to take. Taking a wrong turn out of my own neighborhood when I left to pick her up from the airport, my Google Maps losing reception while in the trenches of Lower Wacker Drive, missing an exit on my way home – they all felt like mistakes at the time. Mistakes I immediately beat myself up about out of habit.

But. The wrong turn out of my own neighborhood ended up getting me to the airport at the exact time she was walking out. My Google Maps losing reception forced me to trust my gut and lead us out of the belly of the beast. Missing my exit led me down the scenic route – one that I’ve always wondered about but never took the time to take.

Wrong turns aren’t really wrong turns. They’re where we’re supposed to be and we just don’t know it at the time. There are no mistakes in life, only learnings.

48 hours away from the mental load of being a mother, a wife, a worker. I was reminded that I am more than these labels. I am more than my right and wrong turns. This weekend, I took a breath. I reset, caught up and now, I feel whole again. I finally feel like my life is headed in the right direction.

Flying Solo

This week marked the first time I solo-parented both kids for multiple nights. A daunting task in and of itself. Tack on being sick and juggling work during the day – my battery was drained before my solo flight even took off.

The “cough” I caught from Bub had turned into a sinus infection. It was the second time I’d been sick in a month. While Steve was away, Bub cut his foot and G bumped her lip while gnawing on a wooden toy screw. At one point, I was laying on the living room floor completely exhausted, Bub was limping around me and hopping from one couch to the other, G’s lip was swollen and bleeding slightly, and Buddha was panting and scratching non-stop from her seasonal allergies. We were a sad sight.

And yet, I’m glad I did it. It absolutely sucked at some points and I wouldn’t do it the same way I did it this time, but I am a slightly more confident parent having gone through it. Now, watching the kids on my own for a night feels like nothing.

One of the hardest parts of solo-parenting for me is that when it rains, it pours. Things that normally would be easy to tackle are harder. Bub wanting to help me make dinner is usually a fun activity for us to do together. It’s not as much fun when I also have to hold G who only wants to be held. Bub dropping a slice of pizza on the floor is not a big deal, but I squeezed my eyes shut and needed to take a deep breath before wrangling a fussy G into her high chair so that I could scrub red sauce off of the white carpet. Bub spilling a bowl of mac and cheese in the fridge because he’s trying to help me put food away is a sweet attempt but one more thing I have to clean up by myself while G is crying in her Pack ‘n Play.

Being the only adult in the house can feel isolating.

On the other hand, there were things I thoroughly enjoyed. I loved exploring a new library with them. I loved doing school drop-off and pick-up. On the drive there, Bub and I laughed with each other about how I didn’t get lost taking him this time around. I loved the slower evenings of just the three of us, rolling around and playing in the living room.

I let myself simply survive in certain areas. Sometimes Bub would have a sandwich for breakfast and lunch. Sometimes the only solid food G would have during the day would be strawberries. I relaxed about bed times, telling myself that it didn’t matter what time they went to bed and to focus instead on making it as smooth as possible. Once both kids were asleep, I’d creep downstairs to eat something myself, do the dishes, and catch up on work.

Flying solo means no bickering with Steve. I make the decisions and don’t have to run them by anyone else. It means learning to be comfortable with the bare minimum sometimes. It means being more vigilante about safety because I’m now the household’s sole guardian. It means tightening bonds with my children and them tightening bonds with each other.

Flying solo also means breathing a huge sigh of relief when Steve texts that “the eagle has landed”. I finally have my co-pilot back.

I hope the kids have enjoyed their flight with me. We hit some unexpected turbulence at times but it was as smooth as it could have been given the circumstances. Now, this mama needs to refuel.

In a Nutshell

This Mother’s Day was motherhood in a nutshell for me. A day of highs and lows.

I’m sick again with a cough I caught from Bub, who caught it from preschool last week.

I snapped at Bub this morning for not washing his hands when I asked him to, after he laid on the garage floor.

I was hungry and cranky when I snapped at Steve because I hadn’t eaten breakfast.

While in the kitchen making lunch, I felt guilty for ignoring G, who was in the living room crying and clawing at Steve to try to get to me.

I held G in my lap as I tried to eat my eggs and kimchi.

I was exasperated when Bub wanted me to carry him everywhere.

On the other hand, Steve did everything he could to make me happy.

After I put G down for her morning nap, I got special 1:1 time with Bub when we went to the forest preserve together.

We had an impromptu family dance party before the kids took their afternoon naps.

Both kids napped at the same time and woke up at the same time.

We managed to get out of the house this evening. It was a gorgeous weekend weather-wise.

At bedtime, Bub, completely unprompted, said, “Happy Mother’s Day. I love you.”

Even the hard parts of motherhood would be easier if every day was Mother’s Day.

Blink

“It’s a privilege to hold a baby.”

That’s what my aunt said to me after I thanked her for holding G while I napped with Bub. It was September of last year. G was two weeks old and I was plumb exhausted.

Since then, her words have stuck with me, especially when I finally have a quiet moment with G. Most of the time, she has to share my attention with her brother. We find our quiet moments together at bedtime. When she’s asleep in my arms in the serenity of her room, the noise machine blocking out the rest of the world. Before my mind starts to wander, I sit and stare at her angelic face. Her long lashes fanning downward. Her perfect little pout resting in a frown. Her hands in prayer formation, folded over her chest. I listen to her quietly snore. The top of her head still has a newborn-even-though-she’s-not-a-newborn scent. I feel privileged to be able to hold a baby. My baby. My sleeping baby.

I’m afraid I’ll blink and she won’t be a baby anymore.

Every morning, Bub wakes me up by saying, “Mom, it’s daytime. Time to get up.” I slowly blink open my eyelids. Every fiber of my being wants to sleep longer.

I blink again and suddenly, it’s night time. Another day with the kids gone by.

I’m afraid to blink again.

“WHAT HAPPENED? Never had a good sense of time, but jesus-christ! Yesterday I’m wiping applesauce off my baby’s cheeks and today I’m wondering when she’ll retire. For years I didn’t wear a watch because I wanted to stop time. Now time stops me dead. Tic-Toc.”

— Betty Fussell, "Eat, Live, Love, Die"