Back (?)

I've been feeling the blogging "pull" for a while now, mostly since about the beginning of the year. I think this is linked to several different things. The birth of our second son. The need for a place to reflect so I can really grab onto something for weight loss. The lack of a "record" of the little one's first years. I read back to posts about Munch and I love how I recorded so much of his life here. I want that for the "new one." I think I will call him Crab here. That may not seem endearing, but for those who know him, it will make sense. It's a good name.

I feel tentative. There are reasons I stopped blogging. I got sick of analyzing every small piece of my life. I wanted to "just live." I sometimes felt like I didn't have anything "worth writing." I got annoyed with some of my readership and was keenly aware of my audience, so I didn't feel like I could write everything I wanted to write for fear of others' judgments and thoughts. For instance, there was a large fight with a family member based on something I wrote and then I remembered later that the post was an assignment from therapy. I didn't tell the person that because it seemed dumb to bring up an old wound, but I still think about that and feel annoyed.

So, there are some things I can do and keep in mind.

1) I won't "promote" this blog among people who know me. If someone happens upon it, fine, but otherwise it will truly just be for me. I got very concerned with "eyeballs" last time and I think wanted to be "seen." I wanted to be part of the cool "mommy bloggers club." Whereas so many people I read back then now no longer write. Now, with more therapy and personal growth, I'm not so concerned with other people seeing what I write and being "accepted."

2) I will write what I feel like, when I feel like it. I won't feel like a failure if I don't write regularly and I won't feel pressured to write "certain types of things."

3) It will be for the joy of writing. I miss writing! I don't know that I truly have time for it, but hey, ya gotta start somewhere.

Believe Me, You're Better Off Without It

My Munchkin, my sweet baby, unclench your teeth from the pacifier.

Because, though I still see the bald baby who rocked the Army crawl across the carpet, you are a big boy now, with a big boy haircut and big boy shoes and long, long big boy legs. You speak big boy sentences and have big boy interests and love big boy games like “twista-twista” and forward rolls with Daddy on the big bed.

Though you still sleep in the crib and you still grasp my hand as you drift off, though you don’t yet wear big boy pants, you are a big boy. You are. And you can handle life without the pacifier. You’re better off without it.

Why?

Here are the logical reasons:

You’re biting it more than sucking it. And you’re wearing the boppys down and causing knicks and holes and Mommy is constantly vigilant over them and it’s driving her crazy worrying you will bite the end off. It’s safer now, with your big boy teeth, if you let it go.

You talk more when you don’t use it and we love to hear you, Daddy and I, we love your little voice and your observations.

I’ve hated that thing since the hospital gave it to you without my knowing. I should have stopped it then, when you were just 1 day old, since it wasn’t my choice to start. What did I know, on day 2 of motherhood? 

But these are my reasons. They aren’t yours. Why are you better off without your boppy?

I could answer more effectively if I didn’t feel I was lying to you. Because Mommy’s secret is this: That blanket stuffed under her pillow? That’s her baby blanket. It is over 30 years old, and it shows. Mommy still rubs the silky edges when she goes to sleep.

Some people used to tell me I was better off without my baby blanket and I dismissed them. They do not know.

But here is the thing I will say. I don’t need my blanket now. It doesn’t travel with me, and I fall asleep as normal in its absence. It’s a comfort I keep because I choose it.

And you don’t get this yet, but I do: You are strong. You are better off without that boppy because letting it go gives you the freedom to speak your mind, and you have such a mind. You have such true and sharp things to say.

Don’t ever hide behind a crutch because it’s comfortable. Spit out the boppy and speak. You will be better off.

Inspired by the prompt, "You're better off without it" in Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop.

Back, and Forward

What do I say after not posting for over 2 months? It's like what you say to a friend you haven't spoken to in months--so much has happened but when you try to boil it down to a few sentences, you just say, Not much has been up with us, same old thing.

But that same old thing--LIFE--was busy and wonderful and stressful and blessed for the last few months of 2013.

I had a blog-life crisis in October. I had a social media crisis then too. In that, I decided I hated them. All of them, all of it, forever and ever, Amen. I hated the seemingly self-serving self-reflection, the narcissism EVERYWHERE, the know-it-all tones. Mostly, I feared that my little baby munch, when he's not so little or so baby, when he's teenage munch or adult munch, will say, why oh why did you feel the need to chronicle every time my snot turned green or I refused to sleep, for all the world to see and judge and comment on?

What if my son is intensely private? What if he's horrified reading my words? I don't think this will happen, but it could. He's a person, and a person has a right to say, don't put that out in the world about me.

I've missed blogging, but not desperately. In October, I quit Facebook FOREVER, hand to God. I cut down on Twitter. And I got less clutter-feeling, and I liked it.

But, I am a writer and I miss this writing. I won't be writing about Munch so much, no no. I won't be chronicling the ways motherhood freaks me out or bears me up. Well, maybe some.

So I'm still having a bit of a blog-crisis, but I've decided I don't care. Write through it, eh? I don't know who my blog-self is. And that is okay.

2013 was a good year, all told. Some highlights, before we turn our eyes to the New Year, one of my most favorite times.

I stayed over night away from Munch 3 times, for a total of 5 nights. This was a huge step for me. (In a few weeks, I will nearly double that time for 2014, yikes.)

I traveled to Pittsburgh, Michigan, Gettysburg, Chincoteague Island and Ocean City, Massanutten in Virginia, and New York City. I traveled with Hubs and with Munch and with family and with dear friends.

I started and finished a cross-stitch, which is an unbelievable feat for me. It took so much time and commitment and it's one of my year's proudest accomplishments.

I cooked, but not as much as I wanted.

I ate at restaurants and take out, far too much than I should have.

I ran and sweated, a bit.

I laid about.

I saved money.

I spent money.

I became an Aunt.

I had our front bushes torn out and our lawn cleaned up for winter.

I ate "clean" for 5 agonizing, brave days.

I supported family and got cheered on by them in my turn.

I supported myself.

I cried and worried.

I laughed and felt joy--joyed, if you will.

2013 was a bit of a hibernation year, when I reflect on what it felt like big picture. Not that we did nothing, oh no. We were as busy as ever. But we lived day-to-day, and it was good.

What I mean is, I didn't hold myself accountable enough, I let myself slip or hold steady. Sometimes you need that. But sometimes you need to push and pull and make yourself stand up.

I know best-laid plans and all, but Hubs and I are looking at 2014 as a Year of Preparation, a Building Year. And preparation and building take work and commitment.

Instead of laying out my typical resolutions, Hubs and I have chosen two words for the year: Frugal and Healthy.

Frugal seems so negative, but what we really mean is SAVE. As in money. We desperately want a new house, a bigger space. And for that to happen, I have to not buy random crap on Amazon. We have to save. Stick to our fun budget, and cut out the chaff.

Healthy, that's a big one. Munch watches everything now, takes it all in. And I want him to see a healthy mom. An active mom. One who values her body and her self and her mind. I've let myself go far too long without losing this weight. I want to lose the weight like I lost it in 2001. I started my 100 pound loss on January 2 that year. Thankfully, I don't have that far to go this time. But it's time to double-down.


So, to focus my healthy efforts, here are my commitments for January, ahead of Hubs and my Big Event in early February:

• Track all my food.
• Work out 5 days a week.
• Get at least 8,000 steps a day.
• Take the stairs.
• Meditate 5 days a week, even for just 5 minutes.
• Floss.

 And, blog. About what, who knows. But I'm glad to be back.

A Case of the "Shoulds"

So today I've read two wonderful articles on parenting and both of them included the idea of letting go of self-blame. This one from the Today Show included a piece of advice that I completely agree with and actually made me tear up a bit:

For Stephanie Decker, a mom of two who famously used her body to shield her kids while a tornado destroyed their Indiana home in 2012, playing with kids is a key to parenting, even when the kids are tiny babies.

“Kids don’t care if the house is perfect or if the laundry is done; they care if mom will have time to sit, play and cuddle with them. At the end of the day, all our kids want is to be loved and cherished.”

This has me thinking about my own tendency to hear the "shoulds" in the back of my mind as I go through my day. I've gotten loads better at shutting off this voice, but there are some things that often run through my mind, mostly on weeknights, after work and while I'm enjoying the few hours I have with Munch and Hubs.

When I get Munch home from daycare, our first activity is often to veg on the couch. I snuggle him as he drinks his bottle (one of the biggest shoulds in my mind: "I should stop him from using a bottle"), and we sometimes watch his favorite Disney shows, but other times it's just quiet. It is our wind-down time. After 8 hours apart, these moments are precious to me, some of my favorites of ever.

But that doesn't stop the shoulds from creeping in.

"I should clean the kitchen."

"I should pack up Munch's old clothes."

"I should dust instead of just sitting here."

"I should get dinner going." 

"I should clip Munch's nails."

"I should clip the cats' nails."

"I should clip my own nails."

And even less productive shoulds, but more personal ones:

"I've seen this episode of Sophia 60 times, I should read while we sit here."

"I should write my grandma a letter."

"I should stay off Twitter while I'm with Munch."

All the "shoulds" go toward telling myself that what I'm doing at that moment--sitting quietly with my son, or even playing with my son--is wrong somehow, not ENOUGH somehow, lacking somehow.

And that is both sad and full-on crap.

I agree with Stephanie Decker--I believe that the biggest gift we can give our kids is our time, our attention, our support, our smiles, our kisses, our arms, our snuggles. No, I don't think it's okay to let trash pile up in the corners or flies to buzz around dirty dishes in the sink. But I think snuggling on the couch is 1000% more important to my parenting than folding a pile of laundry and making sure every bit of dust is off the shelves.

As a working parent, something's got to freaking give. It can't be work. I refuse to let it be my time with Munch. So, it's the housework, by and large.

Besides this, as Munch grows up, I find he's a kid who likes companionship while he plays. A couple of friends have kids about Munch's age who seem much more independent than Munch in that they go to their rooms, alone, and play. One of these kids goes to daycare every day, the other is home with Mom; one is a second child, the other a first. So I don't know if it's an environmental thing. I think it's a temperament thing.

And I think: "Should Munch be playing on his own?"

He will turn to me as he plays and pat the floor and say, "Mommy, sit down."

And 10 times out of 10, no matter what I'm doing, I sit. I ask you, what "should" I do? Tell him, "Play by yourself"? Is that the right answer?

But then I shake myself and say--There is no right answer. There is only what is right for me, and what is right for Munch, and only I as his mother and Hubs as his father can answer that.

And, for me, sitting with him, playing with him, is what I want to do. Munch has to play independently at daycare all day, every day. For him, for my child, playing with Mommy and Daddy in the evenings is important to him. And it's important to me too.

The "shoulds" whisper in our ears as parents because of the huge responsibility we hold. We think, or we fear, that every decision we make will affect our children forever. Some decisions of course will have a huge impact. But my sitting to play with my kid who happily goes off to daycare each morning does not mean he will become a clingy kid who refuses to leave my side. When kids are around, he already leaves my side, screaming "Kids!" He tells me to stay away as he climbs ladders to the slides. He has an independent streak; but he also has the "sit with me" streak.

So, self, let go of the shoulds. Snuggle and play. Munch is only young once.

Career Day Killed the Veterinary Star

When I was in elementary school, I wanted to be a veterinarian. It's likely this imagined career is popular amongst little girls and boys alike. I liked animals; I liked the prospect of working with them every day. I read the Animal Inn series about a girl who helps in a vet's clinic, and though #2 featured the dread putting down of a beloved pet, I loved the books.

But I did not grow up to be a veterinarian. And I remember the moment that dream died a quick and shameful death.

It happened at our 6th grade career day. I don't remember any presentations from that day, other than the one I was most excited to attend--the talk by our family's vet. I felt like this was the moment I would learn all about the glories of becoming a vet.

And maybe he did talk about the good stuff and the rough stuff, but what I heard and grabbed on to was the HARD stuff. Dr. D said in his talk how difficult veterinary school was--to get into and to complete. It would take years, FOREVER, to my young mind. He talked about how few vet schools there were, how competition was fierce, and the best of the best only got in and made it.

I can still feel the deflation as I remember sitting in the folding chairs and listened. It was a sort of crushing heartbreak. This would not be my future after all. I knew it for a certainty, beyond a doubt.

Because, I was sure, I was not the best of the best. I couldn't do it, so there was no use in even going down that road. It would be too hard and I was sure to fail.

The irony here is, at least in my small pond of a small school in a small Michigan town, I was the best of the best, or damn near close to it. I was straight As almost entirely through K-12, and I graduated salutatorian. I excelled at AP courses. I was smart. I was bright.

But I wasn't confident.

And my greatest fear then, as now, was failure.

This streak runs through me, the absolute certainty that I am about to fail, falter, fall short in some fundamental way. Over the years, I've learned to push these voices aside, but it's an active process, and it's exhausting. I've learned that if you don't try ANYTHING, you will not live any sort of life. But it's hard for me, even now.

I've learned to close my eyes and and go, in some cases, enter a sort of free fall--like motherhood, the largest, scariest, most rewarding, most terrifying endeavor of my life. I'm learning to see things not as absolutes, so much. Some things I will fail at--like when I gave my 2 year old a love nip on his shoulder during bedtime routine and he flipped out. But that doesn't mean I'm a failure.

And I've learned to live with failing, learned to see the glory in the trying--like when I wrote my novel and failed to get an agent. There's still time, yes, but there's pride just in having completed those 150,000 words.

I don't know why Dr. D hammered into his young audience how challenging it was to become a vet. Maybe he was sick of having rose-eyed kids imagine his job was simply giving adoring pups a few pats on the head. Maybe he needed to validate himself that day, all his accomplishments and hard work.

And, it's likely with time I would have reached the conclusion that being a vet wasn't for me after all, once I stopped to imagine myself putting a family pet to sleep. I like science, but I'm not precise enough. I don't think I could perform surgery on anything, as I can't even cut a straight line.

But those aren't the reasons I didn't pursue it. Those are mature reasons, the reasons of a woman who knows her strengths and understands that medicine isn't one of them, and that it's okay.

My reason was fear. And that's sometimes hard to live with.

This post was inspired by the writing prompt, 1.) Something you wanted to be when you grew up.

5 Big Thoughts

I've had "blog writer's block" this past week. Usually, a topic will strike me (often, the title comes to me first, when in other writing I can't think of a title to save my life), and off I'll go, the words just pouring out. Most of my posts are free-writing, without a ton of editing involved.

This week, though, nothing. I don't know why, but I have an idea. I've been thinking BIG THOUGHTS, so in some ways I think my little slice-of-life thoughts can't come through. So, here are 5 Things That Are on my Mind.

1) The horror of living. Dramatic much? Not when you consider that in the space of a couple weeks a blogger I follow had a newborn son who died of a crazy rare heart problem or that in my tiny hometown a 3 year old shot himself to death with a found gun. I internalize things like this, empathize, put myself in the place of the parents. It drives me crazy. Leading to...

2) Crisis of faith. Now, crisis is a bit of an overstatement here. Over-analysis of faith may be more accurate. I've long had a complicated relationship with God and all matters of faith. Namely, how can an omnipotent God allow the situations above to happen? What is the purpose of it all and WHY should I trust such a being? And, I conclude, my God isn't omnipotent. I can't reconcile it. I believe God can give us strength to bear this life, but I don't believe that he can fix all the bad stuff and just chooses not to.

3) Time is passing. Though I haven't had to deal with back to school emotions, I've once again lived vicariously through all of the parent bloggers sending kids to kindergarten, high school, college. And I look at my little guy and realize that he's almost 2.5 and I never realized that 2.5-year-olds can sing so many songs, identify so many colors and shapes, hold conversations. My vision of a 2-year-old before I had one is what a 1-year-old really is. What I have now, I imagined in an late 3-year-old. Munch is growing up TOO FAST. Leading to...

4) Eddie Money. Namely, "I Wanna Go Back." This song slays me. I want so badly to hold my newborn Munchkin again, to swaddle him, to smell his newborn smell, to watch him learn to roll over and scoot and crawl. I wanna go back. And I fear that throughout Munch's whole life, this will be what I feel. Soooo....

5) I'm present. I breathe. I watch Munchkin do his newly mastered forward rolls and I high-5 him when he does something that he loves. I snuggle him in the mornings and dance with him in the evenings. I enjoy every smile and even, as much as possible, every meltdown. This is life. Here, right now. And I don't want to miss it for all my obsession with Big Thoughts.

PDAs in Front of the Youngster

I'm an affectionate person by nature. I'm a "hugger," if you will. This holds true with relative strangers and members of my family, none more so than my husband and son. I love nothing more than cuddling with Munch, and I soak it up even more now that he's an active toddler who someday will flinch at a kiss from Mommy.

My husband and I are affectionate and always have been. Once, a family friend commented to his wife that he'd like her to tug at his arm hair like I was Hubs' (a little weird, but I do like to tug on the arm hair).

Now that we're parents, our displays of affection haven't ceased, and I have no plans to stop anytime soon. I'm not saying we like make out in front of Munch, but we kiss and we hold hands and hug. I think it's incredibly important for Munch to witness.

And he's clearly taking it in. Take last night. Part of our usual bedtime routine involves Hubs and I swaying with Munch in his darkened room to some Veggie Tales before we lay him down to fall asleep. I hold Munch and Hubs rubs his back. Last night, Hubs and I kissed over Munch's head and as he sometimes does, Munch pulled our necks back together for another kiss.

Then, when he was seeming to pull us forward again and Hubs went to kiss me, Munch said his own name--as in, No, Dad, kiss me! It was so sweet and so precious and a perfect little quiet moment.

My parents were affectionate when I was growing up. My mom greeted my dad with a kiss at the door every afternoon. I remember times watching from the backseat as they held hands across the center console in the car. It comforted me, to see my parents showing outwardly that they enjoyed one another. (Though their marriage ended, I still believe those moments were genuine and true and critically important to my upbringing.)

I want Munch to grow up in a household where people love one another, show it, and say it. I know that when Munch is a grumpy tween, he'll likely roll his eyes at his parents kissing each other or him. There'll be screams of GROSS and averted eyes when Hubs and I kiss. But even if he doesn't realize it, seeing us love each other outwardly will have an effect, and a good one.

My dad has said that his parents never told him they loved him growing up. Thus, my sisters and I never told our grandparents we loved them, though they hold such special places in our lives. Recently, I've started telling these now-80+-year-olds that I love them when we part after a visit. Usually, they say something like, "Well I appreciate that." But last time, my grandma said, "I love you too."

If not now, when? We are scared to tell people "I love you" because it makes us vulnerable. We're hesitant to hug for fear of being pushed away.

But the only thing that matters in this world is loving one another, and making sure those you love know it. And the only way for them to know is to tell them and show them.

So today, hug your kids, hug your partners, hug your parents, hug everyone you love. Let your kids see you plant a wet one on your spouse's cheek, or rub her shoulders, or smell his hair. Nuzzle your toddler and pat your teen on the back. Show kindness and let those you love know how much you value them. If not now, when?

On Returning to Work

One of my coworkers is back to work today after 12 weeks of maternity leave with her beautiful baby girl. Seeing her has me thinking about that day looong ago, over 2 years now, when Hubs and I dropped Munch off at daycare for the first time.

Confession: Though I like my work, I wish I could do it part-time and be with Munch for 20 more hours each week. I dreaded going back to work. For me, maternity leave was a magical, blissful 4 months of moments in time, moments I would never get back. I would never, even if I had another baby, experience their like again.

It was Munch and me. We fell into a happy routine, most days. Once he was about 6 weeks old and I felt brave enough to take him outside, he and I went and met Daddy for lunch almost every day. We still look back longingly on those early days at Panera, with Munch sleeping in his bucket seat.

Then, I'd take Munch to our favorite outdoor shopping center and we'd take a walk around the lake, which would put him to sleep again, and then I'd sit with a Starbucks and still-sleeping baby for an hour or so at Barnes and Noble.

And that's pretty much all we did, for 4 solid months. I loved it, I loved him, and I loathed the idea of leaving him with ANYONE every day, except me.

But, bills come calling and leaves come to an end. Returning to work was one of the hardest experiences of my life, and I still feel sad thinking of those first devastating weeks.

I did several things wrong, going back to work. The biggest one is I went back on a Monday. Mondays are torturous days under the best of circumstances, but they are the worst for maternity leave endings--the long week stretches out ahead and the thought wouldn't go away: How am I going to do this for 4 more mornings?

Hubs and I went to daycare together, that first morning. It's likely I wouldn't have been able to leave my still smush-faced baby if we didn't go together. We dropped him off, and I did that part "right" at least. I kissed his little head and handed him over to the teacher. We'd picked this place months ago, and I was confident in them. But I was also ragingly jealous of them--they got to see my baby ALL DAY.

I got out of the room without crying, I think made it to the car. Hubs and I went to Starbucks and sat quietly for a few minutes, just feeling the oddness of knowing he was out there, a mile away, with virtual strangers, and we were here. I felt like my arm had been cut off--or, really, my heart severed out.

Those first weeks, I would shut my office door and cry. A lot. More than I think a lot of mothers do. I just couldn't stop thinking about Munch and how I so badly wanted to be with him. Looking at pictures made it worse, so I didn't have many on my desk. I don't know if I was maybe mourning maternity leave, but at first, being back at work felt like being squarely in the middle of grief.

Once, I ran into a coworker whose baby was then 18 months old. We stood in the copy room while she told me that sometimes she would go into her baby's room just so she could smell her. And she started crying right there. The anxiety released in me a bit--it was normal, maybe, to miss someone this profoundly.

Well-intentioned people said, "You'll get used to it." I wanted to SCREAM, That is worse. I didn't want to get USED to missing Munch, and, worst of all, being away from him.

I had to accept that this was life. I couldn't change it, not with our financial situation. I had to stop thinking about alternatives because they drove me crazy. There was no alternative.

Honestly, I entered counseling. Once I found the right doctor, it was the absolute best thing I ever, ever did. I wish I'd gone years ago, or at least when I got pregnant.

Because, duh, becoming a mother changes you. Fundamentally. And yet, after the beautiful bubble of maternity leave, there was my life. Right where I left it. My same office. Same coworkers. Same commute. Same parking lot. Same responsibilities.

And yet, who was I? Who was this mother-me who had reveled in weekdays spent at the bookstore, gazing more at her sleeping boy than the page of her book? How could I be all the "mes"--Mother-Me, Worker-Me, Wife-Me, Weight-Watcher-Me, Sister-Me, Daughter-Me, ME-Me?

Going back to work felt like the world crashing in around me--HERE ARE ALL THE THINGS YOU MUST DO AND BE. So I needed help adjusting, integrating all the Mes into one healthy person.

And, just as everyone said, I have "gotten used to it." It just took me a while, a LOOONG time. It helps that Munch is happy at daycare, and he's learned so much. He loves it, really, and I do feel that I'm doing something positive for him, putting him in the world and showing him that mommy works, just like daddy.

Just as giving birth is a rite of passage, so is returning to work. Maternity leave, which is far too short in this country, is a sort of bridge between the life-changing, world-shifting event that is becoming a mother. Returning to work felt like learning to stand on my own again, entering the world anew.

I still miss him. I still feel guilt. But I'm better at telling myself it's okay. He's okay. I'm okay.

Thanks, Boobs: World Breastfeeding Week

Happy World Breastfeeding Week! Before I had a child, I never dreamed how important breastfeeding would become to me. My mom makes no secret of the fact that she didn't nurse; I had very few points of reference. 

It's hard to believe that it hasn't yet been a year since Munch and I stopped nursing. For the first 19+ months of his life, much of our days revolved around breastfeeding. I constantly thought about when he would need to eat next, where I would be, and how I would finagle it if we happened not to be home.

I know some women are able to just hold the kid with one arm and keep on with their lives with the free hand, but that was not me. I am what some would term "busty" (if this was 1950) and my body's former high weight and subsequent weight loss left me with let's say fleshy bosoms. They take active managing. Impossible to cage in button-down shirts and difficult to pin down comfortably for jogs.

Breastfeeding changed how I felt about myself and made me not so critical of my non-perked boobs. They were now life-sustaining wonders, producing milk because my baby needed it. They knew their job and they did it for nearly 20 months. Thanks, boobs!

And thanks also for making me feel:

Brave. I avoided nursing Munch in public when possible, but sometimes it was unavoidable. I did a lot of nursing in the car, but in the dead of summer, that wasn't happening. One of many memories is sitting in a Panera Bread in Pennsylvania with my mother-in-law holding up my breastfeeding shield while others ate and a worker slowly, slowly swept the floor around our table.

I never felt embarrassed or ashamed for people to know I was nursing. In fact, I felt almost defiant. I've read the stories of women being boob-shamed in Target and various other places; I felt like, I dare you to say something to me. Bring it on. Luckily, no one ever mentioned it, but I was prepared to defend my right to feed my child.

Proud. If you know me, you know I have some self-esteem issues. I feel like very little comes easily to me. And my head had been filled with caveats surrounding breastfeeding: "Don't blame yourself if it doesn't work. There's no shame in formula feeding. You're not a failure if you can't do it long term." And I believe those things; I believe and know that breastfeeding IS hard and there is no shame in choosing formula.

But after a few bumps, breastfeeding came easy. By day 3 in the hospital, one nurse asked if I had other children because we were doing so well. Breastfeeding was something that felt natural and easy, once I fell into a routine with Munch. In a time when everything--from how much a newborn should poop and pee to how to safely swaddle his tiny body--felt fraught with uncertainty, breastfeeding was a gimme for me, and I'll be forever grateful.

Connected. Breastfeeding connected me to my child like no other thing. But it also connected me to generations of women, spanning thousands of years. Our bodies, our mothering bodies, did this miraculous thing. It is natural, yes, but that makes it no less a miracle.

And beyond that, it connected me to Nature. I read stories of how each mammal's breastmilk does specific things for its young--seals, for example, produce milk that is very high in fat because of the rough conditions in which seals live. The milk knows, the mother's body knows. And that is a miracle.

The Origin Story

Hubs and me on the Gettysburg College campus

Before Munch, there were two people who fell in love. This is how they came to be that way.

If you know me or have followed my blog you may have gleaned that I was not the most confident of people in my childhood, teen, and young adult years. (Can you read between the lines to see the gross understatement?) I blame this lack of confidence on my being overweight, but of course my reaction to my size is symptomatic of my lack of self-confidence and low self-esteem. After all, one of my good friends from high school was as large as me and she started on the basketball team and had a ton of friends, if not boyfriends.

But this is not a story about weight, though all of my stories seem to come back to it. Probably, it's a crutch, but I'll figure that out later. Suffice it to say that by the time I turned 21, I had not had a boyfriend, not one. I had not casually dated, not once. I went to my junior prom on a blind date and never saw him again (he turned out to be a little cray-cray, so no harm done). I was, as they say, inexperienced in the love department.

Hubs, on the other hand, 500 miles away and in ignorance of his future wife's existence, had an active social life. Whilst he didn't date like crazy, he was beloved by many girls in high school. He was the "guy friend" that always had gals calling on the phone, I'm told. Gaggles of them, in my mind. He was a sweet guy, genuine, steady, the same as he is now. He had a serious girlfriend I believe when he was 16, took the breakup hard, but eventually got over it and later introduced me to the girl over dinner at The Olive Garden.

Hubs and I went to the same college, but we didn't get together until the second semester of our senior year. We crossed paths during our first 3 years, both working at the library and even being in the same World Music small group during sophomore year. I still have our final paper, and there are our names sitting next to one another.

But, you could say, Hubs had a distraction those first years in the form of a long-term, long-distance relationship with a girl in Upstate New York. While I spent my college years watching friends hook up and break up and eventually go long-term, Hubs worked hard on a relationship that ended badly right before senior year, devastating him. He started senior year in the middle of an ending.

By the time I started my senior year, I was in the middle of a beginning. By second semester, I had lost 100 pounds and gained some form of self-confidence. I'd dated one guy who seemed quite into me, though sadly for him, the feeling was not mutual. It felt weird to reject someone after years of being rejected--something in me said to be grateful for what I got. But, off he went, and off I went.

The last week of January, a mutual friend of ours (who also was in that World Music small group) threw a party. A gala, we called it. It was held in her dorm room. I showed up in size 6 (6! from Aeropostale!) jeans and a purple-striped shirt I still have. I wasn't a big drinker, but that night, I drank. I danced, a bit.

And across the room, I saw Hubs. He was wearing a backwards baseball cap, as was his custom. And shorts. In January. I would learn that such quirks also were his custom.

One of our engagement pics, taken in front of the dorms
where the gala took place.

We worked our way toward one another throughout the night. I kept offering him drinks, which he politely and consistently declined--with the excuse that he'd just played tennis, which made PERFECT sense to me. Later, I would learn that Hubs doesn't drink, never has (still hasn't), and I would feel like a LUSH. And the family lore would go that Hubs and I got together when I was drunk.

Around 11pm (seriously, what a rager, eh?), there was a knock at the dorm room door. In walked a Campus Security officer. He said we needed to break it up because of the noise (music), so I guess it may have been a bit of a rager. I was of age, but hadn't brought my license.

I sat down on the couch and huddled behind the guy sitting there--Hubs. I laid my hand on his arm. And he patted my hand with his.

Looking back, this is the moment that we both "knew something" was happening.

My friend came to collect me for the walk back to our dorm room. I later learned Hubs was going to offer to walk me back. We had made no plans to see one another again, not for Hubs' lack of trying. He and some friends were going to see Black Hawk Down the next night, but I said I didn't want to go because I didn't want to see that movie. (What. An. Idiot.)

Over the next week, I found myself thinking about Hubs at odd times. I'd look for him as I walked across campus. I stopped by the circulation desk where he worked. He gave me a ride to the gym when he saw me walking.

I remember realizing that Hubs was just "in my mind" when I watched TV--and that I thought I liked him. The thought panicked me. I didn't WANT to like him. I didn't want to feel how I felt when the other guy liked me and I didn't like him. I was feeling the tremors of vulnerability that love brings, I know now. I didn't want to be vulnerable.

The timing wasn't ideal, for me or for Hubs. We were both graduating in 3 months and who knows what life would bring. For Hubs' part, he kept the similar thoughts he was having about me a secret from most of his friends and family because he didn't want to hear what they would surely say--his 2.5-year relationship had just ended and was this really the best time to get involved with someone new?

But, we both pushed those fears away, thankfully, and Hubs came over to my dorm for biscuits (yes, biscuits) 6 days after the gala and the next night we went on our first date to see A Beautiful Mind. We had Wendy's for dinner. We talked into the night afterwards, about everything, and he kissed me when he left--and it was the kiss that told me I was on the right track. It EMBODIED Hubs. Genuine. Steady.

Three months later, we graduated college. Three months after that we both started grad school in Washington, DC. We moved in together at our mothers' mutual suggestion--to save money, they said.

Five years later, we got married.

And 4 years later, our lives changed forever, with the birth of our firstborn son.

Journey vs. Destination

I've never been a "journey" person. And in my typical fashion, I've always derided myself for that. Being a journey person, to me, means you're "being," moving along with the flow of life with little anxiety as to where you're headed--you're enjoying the ride.

Being a destination person is more about the stress of WHEN WE WILL GET WHERE WE'RE GOING. It's about getting somewhere else as quickly as possible. It's about setting your sights on a point down the road, and tunnel-visioning for it. Not looking around to see what you're experiencing now--but urging forward and getting stressed when the destination remains out of reach.

Perhaps that means I'm goal-oriented, and that can be a good thing. But when your goal is a big one, something that takes long-term dedication and sustained drive--like losing weight or training for a 10K, for example--reflecting on and enjoying the journey is equally important as GETTING THERE.

Being a destination person sometimes means feeling deflated and floundering.

Being a journey person means saying I like who I am at this moment and I'm making progress and that's all I can ask of myself.

My dad has always been a journey person. When I was little, he would always choose the back roads to get anywhere in our rural corner of Michigan. When you've got a straight shot of highway and can drive 70mph, why oh why would you ever choose the winding two-lane road? I would sit in my seat, gritting my teeth, urging the car faster so we could GET THERE.

But, on the back roads, maybe you can see the river better.

Maybe you'll see a field full of deer.

Maybe you'll stumble upon something you weren't even looking for, something that would blur past as you try to get around the semi before your exit.

Having a kid is turning me into a journey person. Take our recent 450-mile drive to Michigan. I've been making this drive since I was 18 years old and went to college in Pennsylvania. And before I became a mother, I had it down to a science.

Drive 10 miles over the limit and you can do it in about 7 hours. Pee breaks are swift and hurried. Meals are eaten in the car, even by the driver, never EVER sitting in a restaurant. Leave whenever--be that 7am or 7pm. Only deviate from the customary route in extreme situations, like an accident shutting down the Turnpike.

Pedal to the metal. Get there as quickly as possible.

This was the first long, long drive Munch has made in a front-facing car seat. And he loves his car seat. Some days, after work, he'll want to just drive around. He loves riding. And we are lucky. He didn't cry almost at all on the way to Michigan or on the way back. He just rode. He pointed out semis, the diamonds on their rears where the "warning" signs go. He pointed out the moon when the sun set. He drank milk and ate cereal bars and looked at his nursery rhyme book and kicked off his shoe a thousand times and just chilled.

With Munch in the car, we stop for long stretches. At one rest area, he sat as good as can be (when he usually refuses to sit in restaurants) and ate apples and chicken nuggets and fries and then he ran laps around the near-empty space, laughing and having a great time. We stopped for over an hour that time.

And my instinct is still to look at the clock, calculate how much time we've lost, grit my teeth that we haven't made it to X or Y milestone yet.

But then, I turn my mind to the time we gained. That time in the rest area was so much fun. Munch kept pointing at Auntie Ann's pretzels and saying "heart." He squealed as I chased him around. He pooped, a big deal on a long trip. It was relaxing to stop. It refueled him and us. He stretched his legs and burned some energy. He readied himself for the next leg, and enjoyed every mile of it.

And that's the biggest perk of being a journey person. You enjoy every mile of it. Having a kid has given me a grand appreciation of the passage of time. And now that I can hardly remember the sound of Munch's newborn cries, or the baldness of his head until he was past a year old, or the way he babbled before talking, now that I want DESPERATELY to slow the journey down, I no longer long for the destination. I no longer wish away a week to get to the weekend or a month to get to a vacation or three years to get to a new house.

I slow down. I breathe. I listen to Munch saying "Mommy, come 'ere." I laugh when he whistles. I walk slowly, as he stops frequently to check out the stroller. I hold his hand as he points out the moon, always there, watching over our journey.

I put the destination out of my mind. This is where I want to be.

The Terribles?

The past couple of days have been an exercise in patience in our household. Since Sunday, Munch has been quite moody, flying off the handle at the smallest perceived slight, having full-on, blown-out, seemingly-never-ending tantrums when his tiniest desire is thwarted.

We ask ourselves--is he in pain? He's been drooling a lot, so could he be teething? But he falls asleep fine and stays asleep at night. No fever. I keep waiting for each day to dawn and the moodiness to have dissipated. But, each morning he wakes and is smiley for a bit, then turns his mind to something--getting his stroller, having milk IMMEDIATELY, wanting kitty to be up on the bed--and if I tell him "Not right yet," he loses it.

Of course the dread "Terrible Twos" are etched onto parents' consciousness. As you hold your slumbering newborn or watch your bubbly infant roll over for the first time or help your 1-year-old take a tentative step, the thought lingers in the back of your mind: Every milestone moves you closer to the day when your child has a will and an opinion and a ready screech to let you know just how displeased he is.

I've enjoyed Munch gaining his voice. He's the sweetest thing most days, most moments, pointing out things that I never dreamed he knew (calling a giraffe figurine "long neck" ribbiting like a frog) and learning new words every day ("gross" is my current favorite, and it's usually in the context of "kitty butt gross").

So as we wonder what is "wrong" with Munch, I fear that I know: It's the age and stage.

Before he started really talking he went through a fussy period, and we think it's likely because he knew what he wanted to say, he just couldn't. He seemed much more content when he could get his point across.

I think now he knows what he wants and he can tell us and he's just pissed to all hell when he can't do what he wants at the moment he wants to.

The tantrums he's thrown the past couple days have been epic. Screaming, kicking, red-faced. And he will not be diverted. I feel what can only be described as desperation when he's in the throes: Desperate for my bubbly guy, my happy guy, the Munch who fiddles with my hair and does his best to whistle.

And yet, I'm loathe to describe his age or him or even his behavior as "terrible." I just don't like the idea of labeling anything regarding someone I love this deeply "terrible."

Look, we're all assholes sometimes. We go through things that make us feel like crap and act shitty to those around us. We act like children when we really should man up and act reasonably. We treat our loved ones like crap sometimes. And maybe we do deserve to be labeled "terrible" in our worst moments.

But we also deserve to be loved unconditionally by those closest to us. And labels, words, especially negative ones, come to define us if we let them. "I'm terrible" is not something I ever want Munch to internalize. "I'm acting like a jerk," maybe wouldn't be so bad.

Luckily, the newest phrase Munch has learned is "I'm sorry." He says it completely out of context right now, but at least he says it. And maybe one day soon, he'll recover from a tantrum and say it and actually mean it.

So, for my part, I prefer to think of Munch as "working through something." Growing up is hard, yo, as hard or harder than actually being grown up. So if I need to put Munch in the crib for 2 minutes while he screams, or go to the kitchen as he lies on the living room rug ranting and raving, then so be it. I'll be there to hug him when he's done. And we'll work through this thing together.

I Do Believe in Spooks

I have a tendency to let my imagination run away from me. In many cases, I'm squarely with Mulder ("I want to believe") regarding things like aliens and ghosts and past lives and the Loch Ness Monster and the like. It doesn't take much to freak me out regarding the unknown, the thing that lurks in shadow.

And when I had a kid, I realized that they stare off into space a lot, especially newborns. Who knows what wonders their brand new vision reveals as their eyes mature. When he was very little, Munch stared up at the ceiling a lot, cooing and smiling and seeming to "look" at something that wasn't there--or that Hubs and I couldn't see.

Hubs took to calling this ceiling dweller "Jim," which I told him to stop immediately. Anyone who has seen the Paranormal Activity trilogy can understand why. The absolute last thing I wanted was a demon befriending my newborn. (Ummm, that's a really weird sentence, but also very true.) But Jim remained a part of our lives for a while.

I told myself that if Munch was seeing something, it didn't necessarily have to be evil. It was even comforting to think that my grandparents who have passed or great-grandparents on Hubs' side that I've never even met might be stopping in to see our little blessing.

Okay, that's still freaky, but not like The Exorcist freaky.

Now, 2 years later Munch sometimes still seems to interact with something that isn't there. It doesn't happen a lot, but when it does, I'm usually alone with him, of course. One night, we were in the living room, and he kept looking up at a corner of the ceiling and even pointing. And I asked, "What do you see?" and Munch just pointed.

Confession: Sometimes, I ask these nothings to leave us be, in the off chance that Jim was in fact a demon. (I feel the need to spit on the floor and douse myself in holy water even admitting this.)

The most recent incident happened about a month ago and it is the one that freaked me out the most. Munch and I were playing on my bed, which he loves to do. He tumbles and goes under the covers and mostly gives me heart failure for how close he dives to the edge of the mattress.

This particular day, I was lying with my head on the pillow and Munch was standing over me, looking at the room at large. He smiled. Then he whacked me pretty hard. And laughed. And looked back at the room at large.

Our closet doors are mirrors, and Munch loves to look at himself. However, I checked and he couldn't see himself from where he was.

This "look at nothing, hit mommy, laugh, look at the room, repeat" went on for a bit. I kept looking in the direction Munch did. He seemed delighted. And I couldn't see anything.

I, however, really started to freak out, I confess it here and now. I was like, Is some freaking ghost telling him to hit me?

I know this is likely completely insane. I know that Munch is 2 and he hits because he thinks it's fun and that he could just be imagining something in the room or who knows what.

I also know that I scooped him the hell up and went the hell downstairs.

I don't know. I've read about the concept that kids can see things we adults say just aren't possibly there. My cousin's cousin, when she was very little, used to talk about the lady who sat in the rocker in her room--an older woman had indeed once lived in their house. As the kid grew, mentions of the lady stopped. But did she disappear, or did the child just learn to see with adult eyes?

So, that all goes to say, I do want to believe. But I may not want to believe in my own bedroom.

* This post was inspired by a dear friend who on Twitter wondered if her cat was looking at a bug or a ghost.

In Honor of our Wedding Anniversary

Today is Hubs' and my 6th wedding anniversary! It was a beautiful June day in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, sunny but blazing hot. We met at Gettysburg College, and that's where we married--in Christ Chapel on the campus.

I often don't put as much weight on this anniversary as on our "relationship" (first date) anniversary in February--we've been together more than 11 years, and we've lived together for most of that time (story for another post), so it feels wrong to "discount" the first 5 years just because we weren't married.

But, that doesn't mean that our wedding day wasn't incredibly special, or that our marriage isn't something I cherish. So, in honor of that hot day on June 17, 2007, here are 5 of the best moments from  our wedding day.

1) The walk down the aisle.

a) Having both my parents walk me down the aisle was a very emotional experience for the three of us. My parents divorced when I was 16. One of my favorite things about my wedding day was my parents coming together and doing that walk for me and with me.

b) I didn't expect to be emotional. At all. But when I turned the corner down that extremely long aisle and saw Hubs standing at the head of it, I just lost it. I cried and cried the entire walk, sobbing, not just tearing up, but really blubbering. My parents really had to hold me up. Hubs said later that it looked like they were dragging me up to him.

2) Photos on the golf course. Our reception was The Links and they had golf carts for the wedding party to ride down to the greens and take pictures on the course. Though, again, it was blazing hot and we were exhausted by that time, we got some of the coolest pictures ever.

3) The speeches. My sisters (co-maids-of-honor) and Hubs' brother gave heartfelt, funny, and sweet speeches to us, and I still have the original copies they used.

4) Our cake. We were lucky enough to use Food Network's Duff Goldman before his show went on the air and before he exploded in popularity. He created a replica of Penn Hall, the centerpiece building on Gettysburg College's campus that predates the Civil War, and an Xbox 360 and controller for our groom's cake.

5) Dancing at the reception. Both sides of our families danced the evening away and it was awesome. Our DJ was perfect--we used a local guy who did weddings on the side and we gave him a CD of our requested songs, and that's all he played. It was quite literally one of the funnest times of my entire life. Everyone was in great spirits and I still think of it with warmth in my heart.

Our wedding day, in the end, was one of the best days of my life. I married a man I love wholly and completely. It was a day without any drama, chock full of happiness and blessings. I will be forever grateful for that.

Mommy Down

It's been a rather eventful few days. Friday, I had a stomach bug (the less said the better). Friday night, Munch went pee-pee on the potty for the first time (more on that in another post).

This morning, we set up Munch's water table in the backyard, which was fun, and Hubs found a tick on his neck, which was not.

And this afternoon, I fell down the stairs, about a third of the way.

It was after Munch's nap, and he and I were going downstairs to get Cheetos, his current snack of choice. At the top of the staircase, he reached for my hand and I took it. We went down a couple steps, and he was calling for Daddy, who was down in the living room.

Somehow, about three steps down, my feet went out from under me. Our carpet is threadbare and can be slick, and I felt my heel miss. I went down hard on my left hip, next to the wall, and slid downward, grasping at the wall and trying to catch a step with my foot.

Somehow, I let go of Munch's hand. He sat down on the step. Below, unseen, Hubs was freaking out, I heard him. Though this all happened in seconds, I remember calling, knowing that my tone was matter of fact, calm: "It's me. It's me."

It's only me.

Not that if I'd been seriously injured it wouldn't have been a big deal to me or to Hubs or to our families. "It's me" was meant to calm his initial fears, thoughts that even in the three seconds during which I fell until I stopped myself by grabbing a picture on the wall and finally a foothold, I was thinking myself. Thank God it's not Munch.

If it would have been Munch, the next minutes would have been filled with hysterics and panic and frantic is he okay??? and phone calls and hands run over his head and body and maybe a trip to the ER, hopefully just to be safe, and a night of shaking heads and (hopefully) imagined what-if scenarios.

It's me stopped those thoughts.

But, to Munch the fact that it was me meant something entirely different. As soon as my momentum ceased, as I registered the pain in my hip and on my elbow where my arm scraped along the wall, I looked up at my little boy sitting still on the step. And he burst out crying.

Pushing down the blossoming pain in my leg and the shaking from did that seriously just happen? and the fear from it could have been so much worse, I stood and scooped up my crying boy and held him. Carefully, with Hubs below us, I finished the walk to the living room and sat on the couch, cradling Munch, whispering, Mommy's okay. Hubs assured him, Mommy's okay.

He calmed very quickly, but his Cheetos were forgotten. He sat on my lap, holding my hands and rubbing my hair the way he does when he's tired or insecure. I swallowed hard to show him my brave face, that Mommy was indeed okay.

After a bit, he started talking, jabbering, gesturing at the stairs and saying, "Mommy down. Mommy 'kay." Over and over he told us what had happened through his little eyes. Mommy down. But, he was taking our word for it, Mommy 'kay.

And that's what brought me to tears.

It was hard to define why this narrative from him cut me clear to the core. It showed his vulnerability. But it also showed mine. It showed how much I mean to Munch.

Of course, I know how important I am to him, can see it in the way he smiles at me or lays his head on my shoulder. But as my younger sister termed it, this was verbal confirmation of how much I mean to him.

Munch looks at me and sees someone who will protect him and who is in control of our little world. He sees me as the person who ensures he's holding a hand on the way down the stairs, trusts that I am the person who will spot him, keep him safe, remind him to be careful.

And I fell.

This was maybe the first time his little consciousness realized that his mommy is not invulnerable to the ways of the world, to the stairs we encounter. And I hated seeing the fear in his face and hearing the relief and the reminder to himself and to us: Mommy 'kay.

I want to tell him that Mommy will always be okay. That I won't ever, ever leave him alone or scared. And I will tell him these things--they are one of the fallacies we must tell our children in order for them and for us to sleep at night.

And it's not that I'm "feeling my mortality" after a silly slip on the stairs that left my leg aching but not broken or even bruised. It's that I don't want Munch to feel it. Not yet. I don't want him to be afraid of what can happen. Not yet. There are plenty of years ahead for that.

For now, I want him secure in the knowledge that all he need do is reach out and I will take his hand, no question, I will be there.