Parenting and the pandemic
Last night, once the kids were finally in bed (S recently discovered that he can climb out of his crib! Exciting!), I just wanted to crawl into the fetal position - which is what I did. I had nothing left to give. As I curled up on my couch, all I could think was that I couldn’t do this anymore. Not for another day. Another week. Another month. I would’ve called it quits then and there; but, of course, that was never a real option.
I know for a fact that I’m not alone in the way that I am feeling, and yet it feels so lonely. I lost it again this afternoon, just like I have every day lately. Snapping doesn’t surprise me any longer; it just makes me incredibly sad in its aftermath. Inevitably, there comes a time in the day when I can’t stand the yelling any longer. I can’t explain to S again that he can’t watch TV right now. I can’t explain once again that I’m trying to work, or that I’m trying to study. I can’t deal with wrestling with my kids to get their clothes on to go out for some fresh air; only to come back to another wrestle to get them clean.
Full disclosure: My husband and I are incredibly lucky in the sense that we’ve had help all this time. My (fairy) godmother came to Germany with us back in January, and got stranded here due to Covid-19. She goes above and beyond to support us, and yet…
I am still the mother. I am still a mother who is starting a new career. I am still a mother while working part-time, and I am still a mother while studying full-time. I prioritize my kids (and I always will), but I’ve been pregnant and/or breastfeeding for the past 3+ years. I had just started to feel like my own person again when the lockdown hit. And, to be frank, I refuse to let that feeling go - but juggling everything is proving to be near impossible.
This pandemic is taking its toll on so many aspects of our lives; personally, it’s taking the biggest hit at my parenting skills. I started off optimistic - at first, day care centers were supposed to reopen in 5 weeks. I was excited to have breakfast with the kids every day without having to rush out the door. I looked forward to doing yoga with S in the afternoon. I looked forward to the quiet moments nursing L before putting her down for her nap. It was scary, but I really thought we could make it work. Fast forward two months, I’m not so sure that we can.
But again, of course, “not making it” is not a real option. At what cost, though?
I’ve been reading about the toll that this pandemic has had (and will continue to have) on mental health. I personally haven’t had mental health issues in the past (other than a lingering hint of anxiety). I am, by all standards, a healthy individual. I am happily married. I have a roof over my head. I love living where I live. My kids are healthy. I am so, so grateful. Yet, I too am losing it.
By this point I’ve given up on reading the news. If it isn’t about the day care centers reopening at least partially, I’m not interested. I was livid when I heard that playgrounds would reopen before the day care did. How exactly does that help working parents (someone still has to take the kids and watch them)? Let’s also talk about what a brilliant idea it is to mix different groups of kids every day. Every time I pass by the one near our place, it’s packed. Day cares are still closed. I am still losing it.
Tell me I’m not the only one who isn’t quite a model for positive parenting these days. It is so hard to admit that you’re failing as a parent, but can we be honest for a second? We could all benefit from knowing that we are not alone in this; now more than ever. We’ve gone from having bad days to having bad weeks (months?). And as of yet, there is no light at the end of the tunnel, which for me is by far hardest part of this whole ordeal.
Yes, former generations had it rougher and many, many, many people still do - but we are all allowed to feel shitty every once in a while. And, to be frank, this is the worst I’ve felt in as long as I can remember.
Bottom line is: I absolutely love my kids unconditionally, but I need a break and I won’t find it in my weekend glass of wine. Make no mistake when you see happy pictures of my kids on social media (or anyone’s kids, I’m confidently assuming). The struggle, my friends, is extremely real.
If you have any proven coping methods, do send them my way. Let us virtually lean on each other. I know this will pass, but until it does, I guess we just have to our best not to lose our minds - one day at a time.
The pursuit of joy
I’ve come to think that my own concept of “joy” has been radically redefined since giving birth, without me even realizing it.
After feeling “off” for a good while, I decided that I desired and deserved help, and started seeing a therapist a few weeks ago. The initial diagnosis: “baby blues”. Postpartum or prenatal, it’s early to say. But one of the very first questions he asked me was “what brings you joy?”. For what felt like the most uncomfortable 5 minutes of my life I sat there under his stare, frantically trying to come up with an answer. The more I thought about it, the more desperate I got to just say something, anything. That feeling stuck with me.
It felt like lately nothing truly brought me “joy”, and I was simply going through the motions of life a day at a time, grateful but unsatisfied, without joy. And even when there was joy, it often came with a side of guilt or regret as it involved being by myself, as opposed to spending precious time with my family.
Back to my therapist and his nagging question - the one and only answer I could come up with was my very last recollection of feeling joyful, which was when I witnessed S’s first steps. He nodded, and came up with an interpretation which nearly blew my mind. Safe for a health issue, which thankfully isn’t S’s case, kids his age inevitably start walking. This didn’t depend on me. S is thriving and will continue to thrive regardless of how inapt I feel as a mother sometimes. Regardless of me needing time for myself to “blow some steam” or simply recharge. He will certainly thrive with me, but also without my ominous presence. This realization lifted an incredible weight off my shoulders - it brought me joy.
Since that personal epiphany I decided to start a joy journal, to try and recognize that there is indeed joy in my life, and to hopefully get to know myself a little better. The list below is a work in progress, and what a massive progress it has been since that initial question:
Grabbing coffee and cake at a cafe (by myself, with my family, with a friend)
The kick I get after my first coffee in the morning
Having one-on-one conversations
Realizing that S is growing and has an independent personality, but still needs me
Walking around with a coffee warming up my hands on a cold day
A clean and organized apartment
Nice-smelling candles
Buying flowers for our home
Making S laugh, without tickling him
Reading a book without wondering at the back of my head whether it’s worth my time
Traveling somewhere I’ve never been before; ideally somewhere where I don’t speak the language
Both unplugging from social media and using it to connect with people
Device-free date nights
Feeling my baby girl move and kick
Daydreaming about moving to Japan with my family
Parenting with YY (something as mundane as drying S together after his bath makes me feel in my element, as if all the decisions I’ve made that got us to this moment were right)
So maybe what brings me joy hasn’t changed that much since becoming a mother, after all - it has expanded. Given my very introspective nature, many of the activities that have always brought me joy involve me being alone. Note: not lonely. I need time to think, to recharge, to reflect. I not only crave; I need time by myself. I often wonder if this is innate to me, or if I’ve become this way due to being an only child (hoping to answer this after some more therapy sessions). What has changed since giving birth was in fact the guilt that I now often feel whenever I do carve out time for myself. And this is what needs to be worked on.
Either way, it is honestly and unfortunately not a feeling that I desire for my children in our super-connected world. Being an introvert is often misinterpreted in both professional and social contexts; one can come off rude, shy, way too serious - all of which are not adjectives that relate to me at all. I do hope my children are happy on their own, but also that they can find joy in constantly being with others, more than their mother does.
Accepting who and how I am has been a very long journey with many ups and downs, and one which I am nowhere near reaching a final destination. But if there’s one thing I’ve recently learned is that the pursuit of joy and the road leading to accepting who I am are interdependent journeys - there is not one without the other.
It’s also a journey that goes beyond being an only child, an expat, an introvert, a mom - all things that I use ad nauseam to define, categorize, and limit myself. Oh, I’m also learning that introverts can be good parents, too, if you’ll allow them a solo cup of coffee from time to time. Through therapy and writing, I am coming to terms that finding time for my own joy while performing my motherly duties isn’t selfishness - it’s self-maintenance, and there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that.
Happy Mother's Day
Happy Mother's Day!
To past, present and future mamas. To people who miss their mamas. To people who have a strained relationship with their mamas. To the fortunate ones who get to spend the day with their mamas. To the women who decided not to become mamas. To the men who are both papas and mamas. To everyone, really, a happy mother's day.
This time a year ago I was 7 months pregnant and I felt very much like a mother. In fact, from the moment the pregnancy test came up positive I'd felt like a mother. I worried so much, all the time, about everything. For the subsequent 36 weeks, I worried. I counted kicks for a while, tested for toxoplasmosis multiple times, meditated, attended prenatal yoga, talked and sang to S. Yet I didn't want to call it my "first Mother's day", even though I already loved and cared for my son with every fiber of my being. I was too afraid of jinxing it. When you're pregnant, people tend to ~kindly~ remind you of everything that could go wrong at every turn, and I didn't want to feed into their or my anxiety.
A couple of months later, S was born - a full-term, healthy baby boy. I couldn't be happier, and more grateful. And yet.
My mom loves recalling how, on the day I was born, I instantly stopped crying the moment they placed me on her chest. As S cried loudly after being pulled out (he was born via c-section), I waited anxiously to have him on me. I was certain he'd stop crying then, which he did. For a few seconds. Before promptly proceeding to cry as loudly as ever.
I started questioning my motherhood there and then; it had been so much easier when he was still inside of me. I had known him so intimately. With every kick, every hiccup, every song I'd sung to him we'd been brought closer together, mother and son forming an eternal bond from the womb. It just wasn't the same now that he was out. I didn't know this screaming baby, and I didn't know myself as a mother, or frankly as a person anymore, either. The unconditional love was still there, but now tainted with exhaustion, frustration, unending anxiety and so much stress. I'll tell it to anyone who'll listen, as I wish someone would've warned me: the first month postpartum was the hardest of my life. That said, it set up the path for the most rewarding of times, too.
No switch turned on at the moment he was born. It didn't feel to me like "you're a mother now", and nothing fell into place. Instead, things fell apart. I felt much less of a mother than I had while pregnant, and admittedly much less in control of my son and of my own emotions. It was up to me to pick up the pieces of my expectations and ideas I had of myself, and rebuild it all from scratch. I had so much to learn. I still have so much to learn.
The role of mother took time and practice to grow into. It also took a hefty dose of support. I wouldn't be the okay and somewhat confident mother I've become by today, 10 months later, without the unyielding support from my husband, my mom, my godmother, my dad, my family-in-law, my friends. It sure takes a village (and thank god for Skype and Whatsapp for bringing that village closer to me).
Mother's Day is a day of love, of memory, of loss, of happiness. It's a day to call your mom; it's also a day to pat yourself on the shoulder if you've become one (from birth or from practice). It isn't easy, as no one said it would be, but damn it's a wonderful thing.
So Happy Mother's Day whoever you are, wherever you are. Go call your mom, go get yourself a treat if you're a mom, go reflect on who you are because of your mother or simply be grateful for having known a mother's love. Through hardship and gratitude, mothers stand tall at the root of everything that's ever been and will ever be. After all, none of us would be here otherwise.
Thank you
Yes, you.
As I slowly approach the end of my maternity leave, I have found myself more stressed out than what's already common for my anxious nature. At the source of my worry lies the tension between an urge to go back to work, and not being able to imagine anything more fulfilling than spending my days staring at my son's toothless smile. I find myself unable to live in the present with my baby boy, not only due to the anticipation of being apart from him, but also due to the need of stimuli other than motherhood. The conflict is constant and numbing.
Lately, I've been obsessing about the difference between "who I am" and "who I want to be" - so much that by the end of the day only a good ol' Netflix binge can distract my mind in time for bed. The following questions have been playing on loop in my over-stimulated, sleep deprived head: What am I creating for my boy? How, and for what, do I want him to remember me? How will my current career contribute to that?
It is hardly news that becoming a parent often makes one reconsider who they are and what they do (for a wage, for a hobby). For our *millennial* generation though, the possibilities feel positively endless. This knowledge infers that if you do not follow your passion, or love what you do, or find purpose in it, then your own professional and/or personal misery is entirely on you.
As I'm now able to check all standard boxes in my personal life (happily married, with kid), my focus has been shifting once again to my professional one. I've been watching more self-help TED talks than I'd like to admit, and one in particular caught my attention by focusing on 3 main questions to ask oneself when searching for an authentic career: What am I good at? What do people tell me I'm good at? What is holding me back? The answer to the latter being always, invariably, myself.
This brings me, at last, to the purpose of this text - which is to thank you.
A few weeks back, a good friend of mine with whom I hadn't spoken in a while reached out to me. She had started writing again, and wanted me to know that I had inspired her to do so. In my haze of self-doubt, it has often felt unlikely for me to find motivation within myself, let alone having enough to spare and topple onto others. "Having a kid and still finding the time to do what you like, it's remarkable", she said. She was referring to my blog, my writing, my personal posts which despite being somewhat rare these days, are definitely full of raw feelings and plain joy from the act of writing. I'm always so glad to hear that it shows. "Looking forward to reading your next post", she finished her text, and my day was made.
Her kindness pulled me a step closer to the track, and for this I thank her wholeheartedly. Every now and then I find motivation and focus in refreshingly unlikely sources. Every little feedback from friends (or friends of friends), i.e. people who took 5 minutes of their time to read some words I've sewn together, fills my heart and soul with purpose.
So thank you friend, acquaintance, stranger, for bringing me closer to clarity amidst the sea of dirty diapers and toothless smiles. I truly appreciate it.
Alas, the day has come
I wrote the text below about a month ago. I wrote it from raw feelings of relief and heartbreak. I didn't know how else to feel about my son's decision to wean himself - or at least what I thought had been his decision. I refused to do any research before writing the post so as to not shush my emotions; and felt silly immediately after looking it up. "There's just no such thing as baby-led weaning before he's at least 2 years old", read one article; "If your baby isn't interested in breastfeeding any longer then you're not trying hard enough", suggested another in somewhat kinder words. Overwhelmed with guilt, I decided to postpone publishing this text.
In the following month of failed attempts at nursing, I've gained some perspective on the matter and decided to go ahead and publish it. After all, I have a feeling that other women out there may have also gone down the guilt-led path of feeling subpar as a mother before accepting, like me, that frankly we're just doing our best. And there's no shame in that.
...
A few nights ago, I tried to nurse my son as I have every night since he was born - but he wasn't having any of it. He kept pushing himself away from my breasts, and the more I tried to nurse him, the more upset he got. I assumed he was just in a ~particular~ mood and let him calm down before trying again. Several failed attempts later, he happily drank a whole bottle of formula and promptly fell asleep.
We have repeated this process every morning and evening since, with the same result. I have come to the inevitable conclusion that my son has decided to wean himself, and I am frankly heartbroken.
This experience goes to show that you truly don't know how you'd react until you've been through something first-hand. Of course, I always knew that this day would come sooner or later. I assumed I'd be fine with it, that I'd be even in part relieved and eager to eat spicy foods or have a beer on a weekend afternoon, or to fit back into my pre-pregnancy bras. Above all, I assumed I'd have a say - any say - on the circumstances in which my son would stop nursing. I never assumed he'd make this decision all by himself.
From the beginning, in my head it was mandatory to nurse S until at least 6 months, as it is recommended time and again by every single source of motherhood knowledge. Once that milestone was reached and surpassed, I set a new goal for 8 months. In the meantime I silently pictured myself nursing him on his 1st birthday, feeling fulfilled at the realization that he still couldn't have enough of our unique bond. Little did I know that my son had his own plans, and decided to quit cold turkey at 7 and a half months.
My first reaction was to presume that I had approached breastfeeding incorrectly from the get-go. I blamed myself for not pumping enough (or perhaps having gotten the wrong pump?), for not drinking enough "nursing tea" (or maybe drinking too much of the wrong tea??). I blamed myself for introducing the pacifier too soon, and the bottle, and solids. In every scenario, his loss of interest for breastmilk was my fault. And yet I do still have milk - he's just not having any of it. As my godmother put it, he must have realized that he's now only interested in tasting his food directly from the source, instead of filtered.
Deep down I know it isn't me. But it is hard to accept that the unique connection he and I and no one else in the world had at every moment he was breastfed, is forever gone. I acknowledge the fact that, like everything in our lives, nursing S had to end at some point.
It just bothers me deeply that I didn't savor every second of the last time he was up for nursing - as in my rookie-ness I hadn't realized that it would possibly be the last time. To me, this has been a 101 lesson on cherishing the here and the now. On realizing and accepting that my baby boy is already his own person with his own preferences and wishes. And on celebrating every single fluid phase of motherhood, for it all goes by way too fast.
Limitations
I'm a fraud. "Why on Earth did I think I know enough to start a blog about motherhood?". I'm a fraud, I'm a phony, I'm so embarrassed - that's all I could think, on loop, as I sobbed around 2am the other night. It'd been one hour since my son had woken up to eat, two hours since I'd gone to bed. There he was, balling, and I had no idea what he wanted.
At first I thought we had it covered. "Can you please try to burp him? Did you check his diaper?", I whispered in the dark to my husband, face half-buried in my pillow (we take turns). The crying continued. "He can't be hungry, he just ate! Keep trying to burp him". Every minute of a newborn crying in the night feels like hours. I quickly, too quickly, started losing it.
Then I reluctantly asked for my godmother's help. We've been lucky enough to have her around since S was born - but to ask for her help at 2am meant admitting that we don't have it covered. She happens to be a trained nurse who's worked in childcare for the past 40 years, so her presence has been just a bit reassuring. But those days are almost over, as she'll soon head back to Brazil. "When did he eat last?", she asked. "He can't be hungry, he just ate", I answered, defensively.
In the meantime YY was still trying to burp him. He burped! - but the crying continued. He passed S to my godmother. She took him away and patiently calmed him down. Then I lost it.
I started sobbing, telling myself I don't have this, we don't have this, I need sleep, I can't, I won't - but I will. My godmother asked me to prepare a bottle, as she knew I couldn't breastfeed at that moment. "But... He just ate", I muttered as I mixed the formula. That was it. He was hungry, and I was in denial. I preach that "fed is best", but at that moment I had trouble feeding my son formula. I couldn't accept that my milk wasn't enough. I felt like I wasn't enough.
As it turns out, S is slightly underweight for his age, and we'll have to feed him formula multiple times a day from now on. I look back at that night and try to make sense of my desperation. From a distance, I understand that I'm not a fraud, or a phony, and there's nothing to be embarrassed about. I am doing the best that I can on the daily - mind and body - but sometimes that doesn't cut it, and that's okay. The problem is accepting it.
The pressure of parenthood is unlike anything I'd experienced before. I salute parents everywhere, and think about them sometimes as I feed my baby at 2am. I wonder how many of them are out there at that very moment, exhausted, feeling inadequate, feeling like they're not enough. Feeling like a fraud. Feeling like I so often do.
Is that, I wonder, a sign that we must be doing something right?
We must talk about the C-word
Let's kick it off by making one thing clear: If you think I didn't "give birth" to my son because I had a c-section, please leave.
This being 2017, isn't it about time that we end the stigma against c-sections? Hasn't it been proved time and again that this isn't by any means an easy way out? And even if it was - shouldn't one have a choice? Why must we glamourise pain, and devalue any birthing experience that doesn't necessarily involve copious amounts of swearing at doctors or midwives?
To be completely honest, for most of my pregnancy I was a bit in denial that my baby would sooner or later somehow have to come out. I didn't set off wishing for a c-section. Natural births and all that aren't my cup of tea either, but I was set on the idea that I'd have a "normal birth" with an epidural and all would be well. Alas, it didn't go quite as planned.
Despite living in Germany, my husband and I decided that our son would be born in Rio (to the shock and confusion of many around us). My life-long gynecologist had been my mom's obstetrician, i.e. the doctor who once performed the c-section that brought me onto this very world. In this crazy international life that my French-American husband and I lead, the decision to give birth to our son where I myself had been born and raised just felt right. Knowing my doctor would be there gave me the trust and confidence I lacked back in Munich, which was more than enough reason to go back home. We have zero regrets - but now I'm diverging. This topic deserves a post on its own.
Once I flew to Rio at around 30 weeks pregnant, I had to recognize my own veiled prejudice during the first in-person appointment with my obstetrician. The moment I told him I'd like a "normal" birth, he said he isn't a big fan of the term, as it implies that c-sections aren't normal. He prefers to call it vaginal birth instead. Touché.
As the weeks went on and my son's predicted birth weight reached 3.8kg, the thought of vaginal birth started making me uneasy. I never feared the pain or pooping-while-delivering-baby. It was articles about women who ended up with urinary incontinence for life, tried numerous reconstructive surgeries and finally got divorced due to a destroyed sex life that haunted me. Other articles affirmed that "your vagina will NEVER be the same - but that's ok!!! :)". Hm. I'd failed miserably at doing kegels consistently during my pregnancy (I know, I know). Alright, I was doomed.
As I discussed my fears with my doctor, he flat-out said exactly what I needed to hear: "It's your vagina, your choice. Not mine or your husband's, or anyone else's really, but yours". This no-bullshit attitude made every penny spent on my ticket to Rio worth it. At that moment, I still had a choice.
If I opted for a c-section, it would have to be scheduled for the due date or later - not one day earlier. It is often presumed that women and doctors opt for c-sections so that babies can be born sooner, at the most convenient date, with a quick cut of a knife. Not my case.
Anyhow, at this point I wasn't convinced that this was what I wanted. What I really hoped was for my son to decide when he was ready to join us. I wanted to go into labor, to feel contractions. I wanted my water to break in an awkward situation (While out for dinner! During a stroll at the mall!) and have confused onlookers cheer me on as I ugly-cried of joy. Vaginal birth or whatever - I just wanted a healthy, full-term, strong baby, ready to come out.
But life doesn't quite work like that, does it? The 38th week ultrasound showed that our baby had the umbilical cord looped twice around his neck. He was perfectly fine otherwise, but now the c-section was a reality. At first I felt oddly and guiltily relieved; I had a legitimate excuse to let my vagina be. However, as the due date approached and I showed no signs of labor, I started to grieve my lack of options.
To be honest, not one woman I know has actually opted for a c-section. Yet most of them feel somehow guilty, or somewhat embarrassed, for needing to go down that road.
I still held on to the hope that at least I'd go into labor up to the very last minute of July 12th. I never did. My son was born via c-section in the morning of July 13th. I know the moment was right, though I joke that he really didn't want to leave the womb. But his lungs were already perfectly formed, and meconium was starting to leak, so there was no reason to wait any longer.
I do still wish I'd gone into labor. After 9 months of reading everything there is about "how to differentiate Braxton-Hicks from real contractions" or "when to call your doctor and head to the hospital", it is obviously frustrating to miss out on the experience. But still, I was there.
My body had nurtured a new life from scratch, and there I was, being cut open so he could come out safely. I got a cold on that very day and felt life I would die with every cough post-op. The first pee after they removed the catheter made me cry (think full bladder being emptied drop by drop). And you know what they say about "feeling like your organs are going to come out through the scar when you poop for the first time"? Totally true.
Now you wonder if I regret getting a c-section? Not for a second. As my scar heals, I sleep as soundly as it's possible with an infant, knowing that my private parts have never been better. But c-sections are still massively intrusive surgeries, and I never felt as scared as I did while lying tied down on the operating table, fully aware and feeling perfectly fine, while getting a spinal tap and about to be cut open. The risks are real, and the recovery sucks.
Long story short: I would love to deliver my second baby "vaginally" once the day comes - pain, poop, incontinence and all. I would also love to not feel less of a mother if things don't go as planned, for what should really matter is that we're here, and we're ok.
First things first
I guess we all have the right to share about our lives and the way we choose to live them. As a new mother (or simply parent), I am constantly flooded with conflicting articles and friendly, but many times unhelpful, advice. I am a firm believer that you do you, fed is best and whatever floats your boat. I recently read that as long as you keep your baby happy and "not-broken", you're doing a good job as a parent. I guess you can do a bit more than just that, but I agree with the sentiment.
As I write this, the familiar dark cloud of guilt hangs over my head ("Did I talk to my baby enough today?","Did he eat well?","Is his poop normal???"), as it does over most people responsible for itty bitty humans. I must make a daily conscious effort to not judge myself, just as I wouldn't judge others as parents or caretakers. I am now ready to go on a whim to even suggest that hey, maybe I am doing something somewhat correctly. My boy is healthy, putting on weight, growing respectfully, laughing and passing a healthy amount of gas.
The moment I found out I was pregnant, I had about 937287 questions that not even the most obscure Yahoo forum from 2004 could answer. I was just too scared to Google the other 8374923 pressing issues in my head. I had to try many things on my own, and despite an ongoing crippling anxiety, I had an otherwise healthy pregnancy.
In July 2017, I gave birth to the most wonderful baby boy, and I now feel like I could/should share what I've learned, hoping it'll help a new mama or papa out there. I am not an expert nor do I claim to be one, and every single parenthood is different, but I'm being there and doing that my own way. So here goes nothing.
