Survival of the Fittest

My obstetrician assured me that having big babies was not genetic. I had nothing to fear despite being 10 lbs 2 oz when I was born. When I was 41 weeks pregnant with Paddy I had my final ultrasound. I was told he probably weighed in the 7 pound range. One c-section later and I was holding my 9 lb 7.9 oz baby. I was 42 weeks pregnant. He must have grown a lot in that week!

My smallest baby boy.

I did not have as many ultrasounds with my second child. He measured big at 20 weeks and they projected that he too would be a large baby. Despite the doctor saying that I was in the normal range, I felt like I measured big as well.

 

39 weeks pregnant with Gabo.

At 39 weeks "little" Gabriel entered the world weighing in at 10 lbs 4 oz. Not genetic indeed. I can only imagine if he was born at 42 weeks. My husband would have had to rent a U-Haul to get me to the hospital.

Once Gabo started to smile and laugh, Paddy started to play with him. His idea of being gentle with the baby and mine differ slightly. He uses Gabo's bouncy seat as a launch for his superheros and I've caught him pushing the chair to the floor and letting go, giving his brother quite a ride. He "plays" with the baby on the mat and rolls him onto his chest so that he can be a train and Gabo the passenger.

Gabo riding the Paddy train.

If Gabo had been smaller at birth and had not grown into an 18-pound five-month-old he might not fair as well as a little brother. I do worry if I have a third baby how big we will both be as the new baby will have to survive two older brothers. If I had an even bigger baby it would confirm my theory. Each baby needs to be bigger because in our house it is survival of the fittest.

Preschool Anxiety

Before I could get to his cubby Paddy took off his jacket and raced into his classroom. He happily said goodbye and when I picked him up asked why he couldn't go five days a week. I told him that we needed time to do other things like go to the park and the children's museum. The real answer is that I'm not ready.

Paddy's first day of preschool.

 

 

I am happy that he likes school. I know that it is important for him. He is becoming independent, making new friends, blah, blah, blah. But really, I am happy for him and he is doing great with the transition. I, on the other hand, am not.

 

Two Wednesday nights in a row I have had nightmares. Fortunately I did not have to pull out a dream book to make the connection. After all I am dropping him off at a school with a written lost child policy in the event your child becomes lost in the woods.

 

On our drive home from his first day Paddy excitedly reported that a teacher had recently seen a bear outside of the classroom window. When Paddy was six months old my husband walked outside to follow a bear who was walking behind our pool. I locked the sliding glass door behind him. You can't be too careful when it comes to bears.

 

I digress. The point is that whenever I am asked how preschool is going I will respond that it is great while my brain screams at me that it's not great, it is scary and I'm not ready for my baby to grow up.

 

 

My favorite baby picture of Paddy.

 

For the time being I will probably continue to awaken on Thursday mornings and shake off my bad dreams from the night before. I will assure myself that I have not lost my child and that most likely his teachers won't either. I will remind myself that although he might get a few scrapes and mosquito bites he probably won't sustain any major injuries. Eventually I hope that my brain will believe these things and I can sleep peacefully again.

 

One day I will accept that my baby boy is no longer a baby and that I need to let go a little and trust other capable adults. In the meantime he will continue to wear his new blue and neon orange shoes to school, just in case. 

Raising Sons

Growing up my sister and I played with Tonka trucks and had a favorite climbing tree. After my high school graduation I started mountain biking, returning from adventures covered in dirt. None of that prepared me for raising little boys.

My sister and I also had a softer side of play. We played in our one room schoolhouse that our father built us in our backyard. We had a library in a cove under the stairs. We played quietly for hours with dolls and loved to read. My three year old son by contrast has two speeds, fast or asleep. He is loud, boisterous, sporty and assertive. His cars crash into each other and his super heroes fight. He loves to wrestle with his father and play in dirt piles in the yard.

I feel fortunate to be raising my boys with a partner who was like them as a child but also has a very calm and tender side. This, we agree on, is what we want for our children. The lingering question is how?

How do we raise boys who feel free to run, jump, play, get dirty, crash cars and wrestle while also having a tender side? We want our boys to learn to share and to be caring to those around them. We want them to know that it is OK to express their emotions, whatever that emotion may be. We want them to feel strong and self possessed while also considering the feelings of others and knowing that what they say and do effects the people around them.

 

 

 

Sometimes it feels like a tall order, especially on the long week days when I am alone with them. Every morning my toddler asks me to cuddle and tells me he loves me. He kisses his brother and asks to hold him. He apologizes when he causes hurt (to me at least) and tries to help me take care of the baby. I see glimpses of the compassionate man I hope he will become.I have to trust that in our efforts to raise these boys we are doing many things right. 

The Value of Time

Recently a neighbor asked me how often Paddy attends preschool. I told her that he attended twice a week for three hours each day.

"That's great!" she exclaimed. "You'll get so much done."

Right, I thought, I will drop my preschooler off, return home with my baby and get so much done.

On Paddy's first day of preschool my mother and I dropped him off and spent the morning in Northampton, a neighboring town with shops and cafes. I wrapped the baby on my chest and he immediately fell asleep. We ate pastries, drank coffee and shopped. After picking up my toddler we had lunch and returned home where my mother and children napped and I surfed the internet. My husband returned home to a dirty kitchen and a happy wife.

I have to admit that I haven't quite figured out the balancing act of being a stay-at-home mom. Yesterday, for example, as I was changing the baby, my toddler called out to me. "You know you have to take care of me too." Yes, I do. And myself, the baby, my marriage, the household and the shopping (fortunately my husband cooks).

I mistakenly thought that being home full time would make managing the home easier. In fact I feel more pressure to keep the house clean and find that it is so much harder when a toddler is at home all day. Forget about finding time for myself. Alone time mainly includes trips to the grocery shopping or to Target.

As I was driving home from Target the other day (alone) I wondered what I would do with a whole day to myself. I could put away all of my son's 4T clothing and store his 3T clothing in the attic. I could get the huge bin of clothes in the nursery sorted and put away. I could mop the kitchen or dust the living room.

"You could make an ice sculpture" my husband said when I told him my thoughts on alone time.

I could do that. I could also read a book or give myself a pedicure. I could spend hours basking in the sun and drinking coffee.

I probably wouldn't, but I could.

Is a Toy Gun Just a Toy?

We went to a tag sale and spent ten dollars on a Nerf sub-machine gun. After setting up a makeshift shooting range in our hallway my husband loaded the magazine with foam bullets. He shot Batman off of a wooden stool and looked at me.

"What have we done?" he asked.

"I don't know" was all I could say.

We've never talked about toy guns and how we feel about buying them for our sons. We have talked about real guns and our feelings about gun legislation. Neither one of us is against gun ownership.  We feel that guns have a place in our society for protection and hunting. We agree that people do not need to own sub-machine guns. We both reacted strongly to the recent school shootings and the tragedy at Sandy Hook broke our hearts.

So we are left with the task of trying to explain guns to our children. Our toddler does not understand what a real gun can do. Do we prevent him from playing with toy guns because of our own values and feelings? How would he explain to his friends why his parents won't let him own a Nerf gun or a water gun? How do we hold onto our values while allowing our children to explore the world and develop their own?

Something like buying a toy gun may seem straightforward but to us it is not. Maybe it shouldn't be so complicated--after all he is just a toddler shooting at Batman--but for us it is.

Sleeping Like a Baby?

I often wonder who coined the term "sleeping like a baby."  I wonder if said person ever had a baby or was near a baby who was sleeping.  Did this person know the reality of how babies sleep and have their phrase misconstrued?  All questions I will probably never find answers too.  I know that "sleeping like a baby" in my home means waking often, feeding, changing and consoling an infant throughout the wee hours of the morning.  So, what effect has this had on my brain?

Recently I read a PBS story about a sleep study that showed moms are "dangerously exhausted" for months after the birth of a child.  After reading that article I started reading a book on sleep. Although I may not agree with all of his views I found one chapter in Harvey Karp, M.D.'s book "The Happiest Baby Guide to Great Sleep" helpful.  He spoke about the effects of chronic sleep deprivation.  What I think of as mommy mush brain he breaks down into more scientific terms.  He talks about how our moods can be sad or angry as a result of not getting enough sleep.  He also says that we can become more uncoordinated and clumsy.  The effect I identify with most is forgetfulness and confusion.  Finally he says that long term sleep deprivation can cause us to be unhealthy, increasing our risk for weight gain and catching unwanted diseases.  Although I hope to get some rest before it gets that bad I am definitely feeling the effects of "sleeping like a baby."

In thinking about my own mommy mush brain I decided to perform my own study on a much smaller scale.  I decided to offer my toddler a snack without reading the label.  I knew how the snack looked and that he would like it because it was crunchy.  I knew he had eaten this snack before and that I have eaten it for many years.  I racked my brain for the name.  Was it popcorn balls, popcorn cakes?  Did it have anything to do with popcorn?  I pulled the package out, no it didn't look like popcorn.  But what could it be?  I finally gave in and looked at the package.  Rice cakes. Of course.  This is my brain on infant sleep.

Nighttime Snuggles

Five months after having a baby I feel like I am still pregnant. Every day my son takes multiple naps, most of them in a sling or a wrap. So I walk around with 18 pounds strapped to my chest. At night we share our bed with him.

Gabo napping in his sling.

We didn't consciously choose to bed share. After the birth of our first son we were allowed to keep him in a bassinet in our room as long as we agreed to put him to sleep in it. I happily agreed and then happily fell asleep with him on my chest. When we were discharged I thought that it was best for him to sleep on me while he was still so small. When I returned to work he was 12 weeks old and those hours of nighttime snuggling were precious.

When I was six months pregnant and the size of a small tool shed Paddy transitioned into his own room. Gabriel was born via c-section on May 1st. He was brought to the nursery soon after I was wheeled to recovery. He was placed on oxygen. A few hours later we were informed that he needed to be transported to a larger hospital better equipped for a baby on oxygen. We were told that they were unable to taper him off and that policy indicated the need to move him. He would be sent via ambulance on his own. My husband could follow by car and I could potentially be transferred the following morning. When the head of pediatrics started his shift he informed us our baby could stay and he was able to slowly wean him off the oxygen. After 15 hours I was able to hold him and nurse him, tube free. I held on to him and did not want to let go. Even though I wouldn't be returning to work I couldn't bear to sleep away from him.

Gabo in the nursery after his birth.

We have a co-sleeper attached to our bed so I have a convenient place to store diapers and spit up rags. He is now too big to sleep in it even if I wanted to try. His crib remains empty in his nursery except when it is full of laundry. At his four month appointment I inquired about transitioning him to his crib for naps. My back hurts and I could use a reprieve during the day. She suggested that I put him in his crib drowsy but awake. Last night I did. Armed with a pacifier and his turtle mobile I placed him in his crib. The first few times I left the room he scooted himself around and cooed. The fourth time he cried. The fifth he cried earnestly. The sixth he was hysterical. I reached into his crib to rub his belly. He locked onto my eyes with his and grabbed the sleeve of my shirt. That put me over the edge. Out of the crib he came and into my bed we went. It was 7:45 pm. 

Though I am not a night person I do miss being upright that early in the evening. I miss cuddling on the couch with my husband and toddler. I miss the ability to brush my teeth with two free hands. But I know that a year from now I will miss snuggling in bed with my chunky little baby boy and waking up to his smiling, cooing face. For now I will trade wakeful hours for nighttime snuggles.

"Pregobesity"

While I was pregnant with my second child I read an article where the term "pregobesity" was used.  Apparently there is an epidemic of women gaining weight in order to grow and nurture a human life.
OK, I will set the sarcasm aside for now.

I am four months postpartum.  Prior to my first child I was in relatively good shape.  I am a curvy woman but was a recreational cyclist who often rode 15-25 miles at a time.  This kept me healthy and strong.  I had my first child and returned to work, but not to cycling.  When I got pregnant again I was 15 pounds heavier than before my first pregnancy.  I gained about 35 pounds during each pregnancy and lost about 20 during each birth (one child was 9 lbs 7.9 oz, one was 10 lbs 4 oz).  I nursed both children which helped me to achieve that golden "pre-pregnancy weight."  So, why am I not happy?

My body is different now.  It is softer than it was before and I have a tricycle tire around my waist.  I have to decide daily between spending time with my children, cleaning my home and exercising. While I walk as much as possible, other forms of exercise lose out.

How do I make sense of the media and the focus on what my body should look like after carrying two children?  I have learned that "pregobesity," not losing weight between pregnancies (my boiled down interpretation) can hurt your health. Yet, I have read that it takes nine months to put the weight on, so I should be patient, giving myself nine months to lose it. But then, I see celebrities like Jessica Simpson who become disgustingly skinny soon after having two kids (when I win the lottery maybe I can afford personal trainers, cleaning ladies, and nannies).  Honestly, I'm not sure how to make sense of these conflicting messages.

As I nurse my baby and eat my toddler's snacks to quell my ferocious hunger, I know that I need to buy bigger clothes and find a way to accept my changing body.

Brothers

I didn't expect Paddy to love his brother in the beautiful way that he does.  I didn't expect Gabo to respond to his brother's voice as soon as he was born and to follow him around the room with his eyes.

For months before I gave birth I fretted.  How would Paddy survive my being away from him and how would it impact his relationship with our new family member?

Despite my concerns he survived my absence (our first night apart ever).  He had double grandma power keeping him going for 3 days and although we were both ready for me to return home he was no worse for the wear.

Initially he was a little unsure of his brother.  He demanded 100 percent of my husband's attention and made comments such as "I had you first."  I feared that he would hate his brother and remain jealous forever.  Fast forward 4 months.

The boys play together.

Paddy is so proud to be a big brother.  He takes his responsibility seriously.

One evening we went for ice cream.  I offered for him to go to the counter and pick out a flavor but he chose to stay in the car with his father and brother since he was apparently on "Gabriel watch."

One day I took a shower and asked him to watch the baby for me (my husband was in the next room checking on them regularly).  When I finished I returned to the living room to find him sitting on the couch where he had remained to watch his brother.  He had run to the kitchen for an apple but otherwise had not abandoned his post.

Paddy will often ask to hold his brother. He snuggles up with him, kisses him and tells him how cute he is.  He entertains the baby when he starts to fuss and makes up dances and songs to make him laugh.  Gabo's first wholehearted laugh was in response to his brother's antics.

Gabo lights up when his brother is in the room.  He tries to scoot off my lap and watches him wherever he goes.  I truly believe that Gabo knew Paddy's voice as well as he knew mine when he was born.  They have formed a bond that will be life lasting.

I grew up with a sister and understand the closeness that you can have with a sibling.  I never understood how amazing it can be as a parent to witness that bond or the joy that their brotherhood would bring to my life.

Don't Rush

Paddy will start preschool in a week, a milestone I am approaching with both excitement and sadness.  I can't believe my baby boy will turn 4 in a few months.  I have been home with him since he was 23 months old and reluctantly enrolled him in preschool.  He is definitely ready even though I'm not sure that I am.  I wish that when he was born I realized that I didn't need to rush all of his milestones.  I was anxious to begin solid foods, stressed about when he would walk and utter his first words.  I thought that he needed to be potty trained quickly and strategically placed a potty chair in our living room with no apologies to friends and family who visited.  I felt pressure to wean him from breastfeeding and to take away his pacifier.  It seemed that he would never sleep in his own bed.  His crib remains an extremely expensive oak laundry basket as his brother refuses to sleep in it as well.
 
Needless to say my almost 4 year old uses the toilet, eats solid foods, can walk, speaks quite fluently, does not use a pacifier and sleeps in his own bed.  I remember someone telling me once that she doubted he would go to the prom with his pacifier.  So why the internal pressure to rush through all of these milestones?  I wish that I had trusted that he would reach them in time.  This means that there are pictures of him at 18 months with a  pacifier in his mouth (we just got home from the dentist where he received kudos for his wonderful teeth).  He nursed until he was 2 years 10 months old and left our bed soon after weaning (I was pregnant at the time).  Looking back I wish that I was able to ignore all of the pressure I felt, most of it self inflicted.  I feel like I have a second chance at taking things slowly but now I have two kids and life seems to go by even faster.  Gabriel is already trying to sit up and roll over.  He stares at our food and if he had control over his body would probably reach over and steal it from our plates.  I hope that I will take my own advice and not feel so rushed this time.  I need to trust that, just like his brother, Gabriel will reach all over those firsts when he is ready and that he will not have a pacifier in his pocket at his senior prom. 

The Moments

On Saturday we drove to New Jersey for a family barbecue.  It was a hot and humid day with temperatures in the 90's.  I spent the day sweating while carrying my baby in his wrap so he could sleep amongst the laughing voices.  I chased my toddler around begging him to take sips of my lemonade and at one point threw a wet kitchen washcloth on his head in an effort to cool him down.  We slept in a motel that night, my husband sharing a bed with our toddler and me with our baby.  We were exhausted.  The following day we returned to our family member's home for breakfast carrying our Dunkin Donuts coffee and looking like the living dead.  Our toddler once again played with his cousins until he was too tired to run and we started the long trip home.  We drove with our two angelic sleeping children until our bladders screamed for mercy.  Our first stop didn't turn out so well.  The outside eatery, whose name ended in Dairy Barn, (that was enough for me) had only one unisex bathroom which a 12 year old boy ran into before we got there.  He remained there until he heard threats from his family to leave him.  We then got into a very long line for food but elected to give up, driving instead to a strip mall for lunch.  After a quick bite to eat we walked to TJ Maxx to stretch our legs (maybe I had a hidden agenda).  All was almost well until our toddler punched my milk filled breast.  Public embarrassment followed as he goaded us on, "I can't hear you," and attempted to bite my husband.  He was transported to the car in a side carry to avoid my husband being bruised by his flailing, screaming body.  We drove home and I collapsed into bed as my face and lip had become numb from an encroaching migraine.  What felt like seconds later I met my husband at the bedroom door to take our crying baby. I prayed to my spiritual force and climbed into bed.  I nursed the baby and he fell asleep.  Somehow we blundered through the rest of the night.  Monday morning my husband left for work.  I wrapped the baby in his sling for a morning nap and followed my toddler to his room.  He dumped his piggy bank out on his bed and began filling his wallet with coins for our trip to Target.  I looked down at my sleeping baby cooing in my arms and back to my toddler.  Tears sprang to my eyes as I was overcome by the joy of mothering these two precious children.  The exhaustion and trying moments of the weekend melted away as I was reminded that these are the moments that matter. 

I Cut Back on Caffeine and He's Still Cranky

I cut back on caffeine and Gabriel is still cranky at night, it's not fair.  On average Gabriel cries to the point of hysterics 5 out of 7 nights a week.  When he was about 4 weeks old I started a diary of my caffeine and dairy consumption.  I assumed that it was my fault that he fussed every night. I paid attention to what I was eating and researched "gassy" foods.  I scoured the internet for articles on colic and referenced Dr. Sears' books. I was determined to find answers.  The problem I faced was that each web page and book gave different "facts" and advice.  I grappled with who to listen to.  I have consulted our pediatrician and in the end it seems that our baby cries because he is a baby, and that's what babies do.  He might be gassy one night, his gums may hurt another.  He may be overtired or "mad" because I put him down to use the bathroom.  I will never truly understand so each night I will continue to nurse him, burp him, rock him, wrap him, unwrap him, bounce him, shake rattles, stand under the ceiling fan and beg him to please stop crying so hard.  Some nights nothing I do will make a difference and some nights it will.  I will continue reading article looking for the panacea and will continue drinking less caffeine than I would like.  In the end my child will eventually sleep no matter what I do or how confused I become by conflicting research.  I will try my best to enjoy this time with him as I am often reminded that it won't last (and am secretly grateful that it won't when his crying is at its worst).  One day he will be a beautiful toddler just like his big brother and instead of crying he will bat his eyelashes and beg to sleep in my bed with me.  I will intentionally forget how hard these nights were and begin drinking way too much caffeine.

Vaccines

When I was around 8 years old I developed the Chicken Pox.  A few days later my older sister developed them too resulting in her missing a pool party at her friend Amy's house.  She didn't speak to me for days and laid on the guilt for many years after.  (If she reads this post I am sure the anguish of the moment will return for her, my apologies).

Now, our children are vaccinated against Chicken Pox amongst many more ghastly diseases.  There is nothing fun about having your child vaccinated.  At 2 months Gabriel was so upset that my husband spent the afternoon in a rocking chair soothing him for hours.  At his 4 month appointment he seemed to handle the injections better only to have an extremely fussy night with a fever at 1:30 am.  (The appointment was yesterday and I am standing here blurry eyed forgetting the spelling of the most basic words).  I wonder if pediatricians intentionally give injections after the exam where you learn how much your little peanut has grown and how developmentally advanced he is.  With the happy chemicals flowing your little baby is given 3 injections and you can almost bear it.

So, why do I do it?  I know and respect some parents who have struggled with whether to vaccinate their children.  I have heard the "research" that vaccines cause Autism or are simply ineffective.  I choose to believe the research that explains how preventative vaccines are.  As a licensed social worker I am aware of the diagnosis of Autism and how it manifests.  My husband and I were both vaccinated, neither of us fall on the Autism spectrum.  I trust that my healthy, developing children will not suddenly become autistic because we chose to vaccinate them.  We made the decision to vaccinate even though in the moment it is uncomfortable for us and for our child.  For us it is simple, we could not live with ourselves if our children developed a preventable disease because of a decision we made.

Peeing in the Yard is OK, Right?

Our 4 month old was vaccinated today.  Upon returning home he was sleepy and fussy and after what felt like hours on my feet I was able to sit outside while my toddler played.  As I settled comfortably into a chair and my screaming muscles started to relax my toddler turned to me "mama, I need to go to the bathroom and I'm scared to go alone."

So, yes that was my toddler peeing in the backyard despite the neighbors being home.  And, yes, I am the one who told him to.

Fear

One of the most difficult decisions I have made is to become a stay-at-home mom.  Fear led me to believe that we couldn't survive on one income, especially if we had a 2nd child.  As I sit home with my 3 1/2 year old and my 4 month old I think a lot about our finances and how to make it work.  I think that we benefit a lot from the choices we made early on.

One of the best pieces of advice given at a first time homebuyers course was to never be "house poor." So despite our larger income we chose a small 3 bedroom ranch in a suburb of a large city.  We have subsequently refinanced our mortgage and can afford payments on one income. 

We no longer pay for full time day care (for 2 children we would have paid over $2000 a month).  We have been able to reduce our student loans to a reasonable amount (using an income based repayment plan).  We are blessed with a friend who gives us all of her boys' clothing as they grow out of them and regularly shop at consignment stores.  My husband grows a garden and we make our own baby food.  We have a wonderful family who chips in and helps us out in a bind, some of our binds being bigger than others. 

I realize that this wouldn't work for everyone.  We have chosen a certain lifestyle.  We drive 2 used cars (one gifted by my parents).  I don't have a smartphone (or internet on my phone for that matter) and my husband uses a pay as you go phone.  We don't have cable.  But as I stand here writing this at 8am on a Tuesday I am bouncing my 4 month old in a wrap while still in my nightgown.  My oldest is playing with his own toys. 

Fear of not having enough almost kept me from making this choice.  When I left the workforce our income was cut in half.  For almost 2 years we have survived and I know that I will never regret making the choice to spend my days with my little ones. 

Public Nursing (Facing the Truth)

I am a strong advocate of breast feeding.  I will be the first to respond indignantly at the ignorant comments I read about public nursing.  I will never understand why feeding your baby in public raises such controversy and why it is anybody's business but a baby's and its mother.

That being said I had to face the truth today that I feel uncomfortable nursing in public. 

When asked by other mothers I often respond that I am ok with it, just not in restaurants. I am not one who likes to draw unnecessary attention. 

Recently I sat outside of State St. Market in Northampton with my husband and children.  We were in the shade so no need to block my baby's eyes from the sun.  The temperature was pushing 90 so covering him with a blanket seemed unfair.  I had on a nursing tank top, easy open and close.  So, I began feeding him.  But he wouldn't latch.  He played and exposed my nipple numerous times.  I started to become frustrated, people were walking by.  He eventually began to eat. 

A large truck pulled up.  I kept hoping it would park in any one of the spots on the street, not the one directly in front of us.  And then there it was, right in front of me, dirt bikes in the back and 3 men emerging. 

I had to face the truth... I am a strong advocate of nursing in public, I am infuriated by those who pass judgment against it, and I am very uncomfortable doing it myself. 

The First of Many Chases

My first weekend as a stay at home mom we went to the hardware store.  Patrick was looking for something on the lower level.  I walked to the top level with Paddy to find oven cleaner, a supposedly simple task.  As a clerk asked me what I needed I saw my son start to run.  I started the chase and found him on the lower level already passing my husband.  In a fit of giggles and no control over the situation I yelled to my husband “a little help please!” as my son disappeared out of sight.  Do I throw my coffee and purse on the floor to start sprinting or just continue begging him to stop.  “Patrick stop!” I yelled as I rounded the corner down the aisle.  No luck, he continued to laugh and up the ramp he went.  I made it to the middle aisle where my son ran and a store clerk smiled.  “Patrick stop!” I yelled again.  “Oh, seriously?”  the young man said and joined the chase.  Finally he was trapped between my husband and the clerk and swooped into Patrick’s arms.  My son laughed as I cursed the muscles already hurting in my out of shape body.  Then, back to shopping.  Your turn I thought as my husband took chase after him as he ran off again this time pushing a pint sized shopping cart.  I turned down the aisle for the oven cleaner and hoped for the best.  

How it All Began...

On July 4, 2012, after a particularly grueling day at work, I decided to quit my job. I returned home and found my husband and 18-month-old son playing in the backyard. I sat with my husband and made my proclamation: 

“I am leaving my job.” 

“Mmmhmmm ...”

He had heard that one before. 

My job was not an easy one, although the benefits had always outweighed the challenges. I was the clinical supervisor of a crisis unit for adults in varying degrees of mental health crisis. I managed crises daily and supervised interns. My job was fulfilling, but since the birth of my son, something had changed. 

I remember when I told my supervisor I was pregnant. She was concerned about my replacement. What?  I’m not leaving, I thought. I had not considered being a stay-at-home mom. How could a family possibly live on one income? I am married to a school teacher who was working in an inner-city high school during my pregnancy. We certainly weren’t raking it in and at that time fear replaced any dreams of what life could be with me at home. 

Then, my son was born and I soon had to drop him off at daycare; he was 12 weeks old.  I cried daily, sometimes multiple times a day.  I heard that it would get easier. It never did. 

A few days after my initial proclamation, I decided to revisit the topic with my husband.  I was serious about leaving and the discussions began. He was transitioning to a new school district which fortunately afforded him an increased salary. We looked at our savings and debt. We crunched numbers, developed budgets and crunched numbers again. For two blissful months we were a family earning $100,000 a year. We paid off our credit card debt and the medical bills from my son’s birth.

Then, the day finally came. I was leaving my job.

There were tears. I had worked there eight years and had developed strong and meaningful relationships. I was leaving a place where I was comfortable and a job that I was good at. I heard many sweet and kind words that last week.

Before my last day, I had felt anxious and feared telling some people.  This is 2012. Women are expected to be able to juggle career and family. Would I be met with disgust? Would they question why I could not juggle it all? Would I be seen as a failure? The answer was no.

I was told that it may be a struggle, that sacrifices would need to be made, and, most importantly, that I would not regret my decision.  I was amazed at how many women told me that they had worked part time when their children were young, or that they wish they could.

While it helped to hear this, it didn’t make the transition easy.

I was not the type of woman (and I am still not) who finds it easy to rely on anyone for financial support. I have been fiercely independent for many years, holding one or multiple jobs since I was 14.  But, soon after my 36^th birthday, I would be unemployed, relying on my husband for all of my financial support.

On Friday, November 2, I finished my last day. The career I had worked hard for, and dedicated many years to, was now on the back burner. A new chapter in my life began. 

That weekend, I found myself in a hardware store, chasing after my son. I was familiar with being in a crisis situation, but none like this. I was being outrun by a 23-month-old. As I ran, with coffee in hand, I began my decision tree. Throw my coffee and purse, and sprint? Throw just one or the other? Try to sprint with hot coffee in my hand? Scream?

I found myself in a fit of giggles, begging for help from my husband and the store clerks.  Finally my son was trapped between them. I stopped, took a breath and a sip of coffee. 

This is what I’ve gotten myself into? 

The adjustment has been wonderful and challenging. Life is certainly different now. We have new routines. My son reminds me to get my coffee before we go to the family room to start our day. There are days that I think one more episode of “Barney” will send me over the edge.

But then my son says something beautiful, as children often do, and I smile and am reminded why I made this decision. I am having the moments that I had paid other women to experience. 

My husband and I are learning how to live on half of our previous income. It is challenging and I find myself comparing it to quitting smoking. I remember the first time I drove in a snowstorm without smoking. Recently, my husband and I drove through multiple towns without stopping at a café for coffee. It was the same feeling. It’s scary and hard, but also rewarding. We know that each dollar we save goes towards something more important. It pays for time, time I can spend with my son. 

Divided

Last night I tried to put Gabo down to bed early.  I thought if I tried to lull him to sleep before he was too tired I may be successful.  I hoped that we could skip the ear piercing screams that often accompany bedtime.  I thought that maybe it is not gas or bothersome teeth that make bedtime so difficult, but that he is in fact overtired.  After rocking, nursing, walking and wrapping he began to scream.  About 5 minutes later my husband came to relieve me and I joined Paddy in the living room.  "How about we go snuggle in bed and read some books?"  My question was met with excitement as I rarely get to be part of his bedtime routine anymore.  We snuggled in his bed and opened one of his favorite, fairly long, picture books.  As I began to read Gabo began to scream.  His screams became increasingly louder as Paddy became increasingly comfortable.  I began to read faster battling with myself about whether to finish the book or drop it and run to my youngest, hysterical child.  I continued to read as the crying reached a pitch that no mother could ignore.  I finished the book and kissed my son on the cheek as he turned into me to cuddle himself to sleep.  As I dashed out of his bed I felt his lips on my back as he attempted to kiss me goodnight.   Once Gabo was settled and my husband returned to the living room (after once again putting Paddy to bed) I recounted what had happened.  When I reached the end of my story and told him about the kiss on the back he said "how sad." I burst into tears.  How sad indeed.  But in that moment how do you choose between your 3 1/2 year old who used to be an only child with your undivided attention and your hysterical 4 month old baby?  I can't imagine ever making the best decision because all of my options sucked.  At the end of it all I could do was sit and eat a Klondike bar, thankful that the baby was asleep and hopeful that my son would forget that he kissed my back as I ran out to sooth his brother. 

Bedtime

Two nights ago I suffered the usual bedtime battle with my 3-month-old.  He is not an easy sleeper.  He fights. He cries hysterically. He squirms.  Most nights I wrap him in a sling and pace up and down the street until eventually he succumbs.  

 

On a recent evening he fell asleep but quickly awoke. I tried again, walking him around the block until he slept. I returned hot and tired, demanding ice water and ice cream from my husband, who was sitting reading on the couch.  We settled in to watch “Chopped” on Food Network, our nightly “grown up time” routine and then I went to bed.  

I laid down with the baby (My husband and I co-sleep with our baby as we had with our older son) and once again settled him as the trip to the bedroom had woken him up.  Exhausted I started to fall asleep only to discover the room was too cold.  

I went to shut the window and left the baby behind on the bed--thinking he was fast asleep--only to have him rouse, once again.  Yet, this time he would not fall asleep. I cradled and rocked him in my arms and he squirmed, uncontrollably, nearly jumping from my arms.

I placed him in his co-sleeper and I cried.  

Eventually my husband took him for a walk and was able to place a peaceful baby in my arms. Tomorrow will be different I thought as I drifted off to sleep.

The following day my husband and I set to work cleaning up the nursery, also known as the catchall, with a crib used for laundry.  I reasoned that if the room was cleaned of clutter and the crib changed from a toddler bed back to a functional crib, I would get the baby to transition smoothly from sleeping in our room to his own.  
 

Later, I made an attempt: placing him for his afternoon nap in his newly cleaned room.  As usual, I rocked him, walked him, nursed him and then gently laid a sleeping baby into his awaiting crib.
  

He spent the next 45 minutes awake, in his crib, while my husband, my three-year-old and I took turns checking on him, soothing him and praying he would sleep.

No luck.

I once again wrapped him -- all 16 pounds-- and began walking. He soon fell asleep.  

Later that evening we returned from an outing and my husband and older son retired to the basement to watch television. I took the baby into the nursery, feeling hopeful. I was going to settle him, put him in his crib and join my husband (knowing our 3 year old would be fast asleep).

Then, we would rest with ice-cream and “Chopped.”

And so it began….

While I nursed my baby I thought of my sister-in-law who recently had her first child.  I thought about a piece of advice I would give her: “When your infant is inconsolable, just remember that it can’t last forever, the baby has to give in to sleep eventually, there is an end in sight.”  

My baby finished nursing and began to fuss.

 
I rocked him and he began to settle. Then, he spit up, all over both of us.  Not wanting to disturb his calm, I wiped his and my arms with my shirt .  My spirits were still high . I still had hope. I would get him to sleep, wait 15 minutes, put him in his crib, plug in the monitor and be free. My nightly routine awaited.

After more rocking and pacing his eyes closed and his body went limp.  Success. I looked at the clock and made my plan.  

A minute later his eyes opened. He looked at me and my heart sank.  

I was tired and my hip hurt.  I was sweating and my mouth was dry.  I smelled of spit up.  I gave up.

I climbed into bed, with my now-screaming baby, feeling defeated, knowing in my heart that I would be once again on my feet, with 16 pounds of screaming baby slung around my neck.  

Instead, I just lay there, watching him, curled in the crook of my arm,  as he slipped peacefully into sleep.