Que pena
Desabafos e pensamentos nesse blog são normalmente expressos em inglês, mas esse post deve ser necessariamente em português. Que me perdoem os anglófonos.
Tenho pensado diariamente em me desligar das mídias sociais, pois o que vejo me traz mais tristeza do que esperança. "Mas, o que sinto escrevo. Cumpro a sina" - como diria Adélia Prado. Então aqui estou, me sentindo no direito (e dever) de expressar tais sentimentos que vêm me consumindo.
Mas que pena que se expressar tornou-se sinônimo de radicalismo. Que pena que discordar com "B" tornou-se sinônimo de apoiar "A". A vida, que sorte a nossa, não é tão preta ou branca, 8 ou 80, e não há quem me convença do contrário.
Minha primeira reação ao ver tantos "amigos" e familiares defendendo um candidato cujas ideias me embrulham o estômago foi me perguntar - por quê? Não encontrei argumento que justificasse uma descida além do fundo do poço do que considero (para mim, notem) moralmente aceitável. E por mais que busque na empatia o respeito necessário para o convívio amigável, a tristeza de termos chegado onde chegamos, nesse "nós contra eles", me consome. Diariamente. Hora por hora, minuto por minuto.
Sou forçada a me perguntar o que tais amigos e parentes pensariam de mim se fosse negra, ou pobre. Mulher, mãe e grávida eu já sou. Tenho a sorte de morar em um país onde minha condição humana não se volta, institucionalmente, contra mim (e se a Alemanha ainda está longe da igualdade salarial entre homens e mulheres, imaginem o Brasil). Morar na Europa é minha sorte e privilégio, e que pena que seja assim. A meu ver, morar fora do Brasil deveria ser uma opção, não uma escapatória.
O meu voto é portanto a favor de mulheres menos privilegiadas social e financeiramente do que eu. É também a favor de homossexuais, e de negros. O meu voto não é necessariamente contra o seu voto; esse desabafo não é uma afronta. É um desabafo político, mas não somente. A verdade é que a minha preocupação prioritária é como mãe.
Meu filho de um ano pode vir a ser gay, ou afeminado, ou simplesmente fora das normas da "família tradicional brasileira". E isso não deveria ter nada a ver com ninguém além dele mesmo e seus futuros parceiros. Mas me dói a perspectiva de visitar meu país e ouvi-lo sendo chamado pejorativamente de "boiola", entre outros "insultos" esdrúxulos, com a intenção de machucar. Me dói também a perspectiva de que ele poderia ser espancado pelos seus potenciais trejeitos - atitude essa, diga-se de passagem, sancionada abertamente pelo próprio presidenciável em questão. Me dói pelo meu filho e por todos os filhos e filhas que não se encaixam nos padrões grotescos da nossa sociedade hipócrita e retrógrada. Não, não dá.
E o que será do bebê no meu útero? Não sabemos ainda seu sexo - nem entremos na questão de gênero. Pode ser menino, pode ser menina, pode ser intersexual. Eu sei que o amo da mesma maneira, venha como vier. Mas não posso dizer o mesmo da sociedade brasileira. Aos olhos dos "bons valores" brasileiros, se for menino é judeu, se for menina merece ganhar menos, se for intersexual está fadada à prostituição (a realidade de 90% dos trans no Brasil). Para essa sociedade atual, meus filhos já teriam seu potencial limitado - que dirá se elegermos alguém com valores tão obsoletos que consegue fazer o Trump parecer uma opção razoável.
Isso sem falar da política pró-armamento, que é por si só uma receita para o desastre em um país tão desorganizado quanto o Brasil. E o militarismo? Tenho medo, muito medo. Choro de medo, e me perco na desesperança, fruto da intolerância e do discurso de ódio que andam pregando por aí. Já dizia de Gaulle que "o Brasil não é um país sério". Refutei sua afirmativa enquanto pude, mas por fim, ele sempre teve razão. Que pena.
Antes que me apontem o dedo, afirmo que por aqui não há indiretas. Esse é um artigo apartidário, fruto de uma mente ansiosa, que tenta achar um fio de lógica e esperança em meio ao caos. O que sinto, escrevo.
And bump makes us four
A few days before going home to Rio for a month back in June, I wasn't being myself. I was extremely emotional, stressed out, and just overall "off". Maybe it was the early summer heat, or the stress of an upcoming long-haul flight by myself with my then 10 month-old. Or maybe it wasn't. I decided to take a pregnancy test, and the very faint plus sign confirmed my by now educated suspicion - I am pregnant again!
An emotional rollercoaster succeeded the initial shock, which is why it has been so quiet around here lately. As we slowly started sharing the news with close friends and family, we've learned to develop a thicker skin after repeatedly hearing a number of variations on the theme of "oh you're brave" and "was it an accident*?". These were often accompanied by substantially less enthusiastic "congratulations" than the first time around.
*I know that no harm was meant with the question, but no - it wasn't an "accident". An "accident" is, to me, something that I would generally like to avoid. A second child, on the contrary, is a wish YY and I have always shared and will luckily welcome with open hearts and arms.
The truth is, the world in which we live is a confusing, often nasty, but also weirdly wonderful and humbling place - and that combination won't likely change. We can't decide if we're highly optimistic, brave, selfish or simply crazy for desiring badly to expand our little family, but one thing we do know is that now is as good a time as ever to do it.
Our babies will be 19 months apart and in February 2019 we will find ourselves responsible for "two under two", as they say. I would be lying if I said that the prospective of caring for two tiny beings at once doesn't scare me. I also think that my enthusiasm has been substantially curbed in the past two months by the ongoing nausea, migraine, extremely low blood pressure and, the one symptom that got to me the most, constipation. Add that mix to the European summer heatwave, and you get a pregnant lady and mama who could barely open her eyes or get out of bed, let alone find the motivation to stir up her creative juices and write with an ideal frequency.
With the beginning of the second trimester I'm now feeling some much deserved relief, so here I am. I am also back at work, and discovering the joy and challenge of being the working mother of a one year-old while nurturing a second precious being in my womb. This would be the subject for a whole other post, though.
For now, we shall enjoy our time as a family of three while preparing physically and emotionally to welcome our member number 4, and we will gladly take in enthusiastic congratulations in the meantime. If my second pregnancy had indeed been an accident, it would've been the happiest, albeit also the most challenging, of them all.
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.
Flying while pregnant
I've been meaning to write this post for a while, as I had a very hard time finding solid information on the topic back when I was pregnant. You'd think that the Internet would have more to offer pregnant women in their third trimester who are about to go on a 15-hour plane ride by themselves - but alas, it doesn't.
As some of you might know, my husband and I decided early into the pregnancy that our son would be born in Rio, Brazil (my hometown). Because Germany is an amazing place to live and work and make babies, I managed to combine my pre-partum 6-week paid leave with part of my yearly holidays in order to travel at 30 weeks pregnant. The downside? I would be traveling by myself on a long-haul flight, and I couldn't find any information from women who had done it, other than on a few obscure Yahoo forums from 10 years ago. Needless to say, it wasn't enough to reassure me - but I went ahead and did it anyway. Here's my experience.
This is me a few days before I left for Rio. I should start off by saying that, overall, I had a very easygoing pregnancy - other than two gestational diabetes scares and loads of heartburn. At this point I was 30 weeks pregnant, and still had loads of energy (in fact, I walked about 8km that very day).
At that moment, the thought of the trip didn't scare me as much as it had a few months before, when in an 100% leap of faith I booked the non-refundable ticket to Rio while having no clue how I'd be feeling once the travel day actually came (i.e. the same sort of calculated recklessness that pushed me to get a tattoo in Tokyo while on a 2-week touristy trip).
But as I said, I take calculated risks. I did lots of research in the months leading up to the trip in order to be as prepared as possible, and I learned a few things that proved essential to my well-being during those gruesome 15+ traveling hours.
1. Compression socks are vital
I read time and again about the importance of compression socks, and I'm happy I took it seriously. Although I'd be flying way before the "deadline" for pregnant women*, I knew that just by being pregnant and on my third trimester I was at a risk of developing Deep Vein Thrombosis (DVT) during my long flight, so I didn't hesitate to get my hands on some quality compression socks. I went to a pharmacy, got my measurements taken and left with compression tights (the kind that covers your belly and all). DO NOT get the kind goes only all the way up to your thighs, unless having them rolling down all the time/having your legs look like sausages is your thing.
*This varies according to the airline company, but it's normally 36 weeks, unless you're carrying multiples.
2. Fly Business Class (if you can)
Yes, this is an outrageous luxury, but one that you won't regret spending your money on if you can and if you must fly long-haul while massively pregnant. This information was nowhere to be found during my research, but I assumed that being able to stretch my swollen legs and lay down on my side would be a really good investment, and it was. The only downside was not being able to indulge on the complementary pre take-off champagne (hey KLM, you owe me one).
3. Travel during the day
Newsflash: You can't sleep on your long-haul flight. As in, you literally shouldn't. In order to avoid DVT, one of the most important things to do is to get up and stretch/walk around every half hour or so (I set up my timer and all, that's how serious I was about this). Since you won't be able sleep, and will also likely be preventing other passengers from sleeping by getting up all the time, it really does make sense to travel during the day, if possible. I flew from Munich to Rio via Amsterdam with KLM because, although it's a longer route, it was the only option that allowed me to travel during daytime. No regrets here.
4. Hydrate, hydrate, hydrate
Yet another often repeated recommendation when it comes to avoiding DVT, and another one that I followed to the letter. Once I was past security at the airport, I made sure to buy THREE LITERS of water for my flight. Since the Amsterdam-Rio flight takes about 12 hours, I made sure to be done with each liter every 4 hours. I know, I know, I can be very anal about these things, but...
The outcome
Other than the constant getting up, having compression socks compressing my bladder and continuous need to pee it was one of the best flights of my life (I guess flying business class does that to you regardless of how pregnant you are). Joking aside, the moment I got on the plane I decided to relax and follow my above outlined plan, and arrived in Rio feeling well-rested and not at all swollen. I was legitimately surprised by how well I felt, and I would do it again in a heartbeat if presented with a similar opportunity and context.
The one takeaway from my experience is that feeling prepared goes a long way in such situations - and holding onto even a tiny bit of control can do wonders. I truly hope that this somewhat recent, personal account helps you feel more prepared and in control than the Yahoo forums ever could. Safe travels!
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.
Taking time to be kind
I have very recently realized that up to this point I hadn't written once - not one time - the whole month of February. Every time I've logged my daily habits on my bullet journal this month, the blank space next to "write" led to a painful pang of guilt, which was subsequently forgotten due to a crying baby or a dirty pile of clothes.
I still somehow find the time to read a lot, though, and since my pregnancy I've devoured almost every article on so-called "mommy blogs" (such as Pregnant Chicken and Scary Mommy, to name a couple). A recurring theme seems to be the busyness of motherhood and the heaviness of a mother's (or main caregiver's) mental load; or how one can go about doing "stuff" all day long without seemingly adding up to anything, feeling absolutely drained by the time baby's in bed. Washing bottles, burping baby, changing diapers - you name it. It's an ongoing loop in which I am currently stuck, and find myself sometimes guiltily eager to get out.
This past weekend I got a chance to break the routine, and I ran with it. For my parents' birthday (they were born the same day, years apart) we went on a weekend trip to Innsbruck, Austria. We spent a wonderful time together, happy and healthy with the beautiful Austrian mountains as the most magnificent backdrop. I am always grateful for every minute I get to spend with my family. And yet...
The planning it took and the anxiety generated from organizing every single thing the baby could possibly need during those 48 hours left me with a migraine for days.
I haven't gone to the gym in almost two weeks, though I've been eating like a pig, which truly affects my self-esteem.
My hands are so dry from the baby bottle detergent, the skin has started to crack and it hurts (no matter how much moisturizer I apply).
I miss being creatively productive, and being tickled intellectually.
My home is a mess, which is a daily visual assault against my usually uber-organized self.
My whole body hurts from the cold and the numerous layers I have to wear just to go around the corner to buy some formula.
Although I know I am doing my best, I too often feel like it's not nearly enough.
I often want to quit, to disappear, to fade away. It sometimes feels like it's just too much. But this overwhelming anxiety isn't new to me, and by now I've learned to take deep breaths and count my blessings, until I'm ready to go on with my day.
But you wouldn't know any of this from social media.
Which brings me back to this trip to Innsbruck. The first night, my husband and I decided to leave S with the grandparents for an hour or so in order to catch up solo over a drink or two. My place of choice was the Hard Rock Café, because I could truly use a giant plate of nachos followed by an outrageously large margarita. Plus it brings both of us sweet memories whenever they play Blink 182 or New Found Glory, so the choice was really a no-brainer.
By the entrance, they had a metal sign which read "take time to be kind". I hadn't stepped into a Hard Rock Café for over a decade and couldn't recall if this was a "thing", but I found it awfully cheesy at the moment. Cute, but cheesy, and maybe a bit out of place? Anyways, on to nachos!
But now, being back to the daily grind, to the overeating to compensate for the fatigue, to the piles of dirty clothes and to the messy apartment, that phrase keeps coming back to me. Being kind to my son is second nature and unquestionable, but I can still use the reminder. I choose to interpret it as a sign. In the sea of never-ending stuff to do and to feel guilt about, I am claiming some time to be kind to myself.
Starting with this post.
PS: There is a fantastic Instagram account titled @postpartumstress which I follow and highly recommend to anyone whose anxiety is as bad as mine. Their super relatable material has made me feel less alone on numerous occasions.
Photo credit: Carolina Goetz
The daily grind
A few weeks back I posted an Instagram story with a glimpse of a PDF I'd put together to help my husband visualize the daily routine with the baby. I did a little poll asking whether it would be helpful if I shared it, and the results were unanimous - so here we are! Needless to say, this is an entirely practical post, as opposed to the sentimentalities I normally publish. Also, do keep in mind that what works for my family may not work for yours (and vice-versa). That said, let's dig in.
The daily grind
The original PDF listed our routine before our son turned six months, but the daily tasks have changed quite a bit since. I used to look forward to not having to sterilize everything every day, but the challenges (and messiness) of introducing solids and water to S kinda made me miss the good ol' sterilized bottles days.
Anyways, here's what our days look mostly like (tasks added after he turned 6 months are highlighted in green):
Observations:
Nursing
I still nurse S at least twice daily - first thing in the morning and after bath time, sometimes also during the day. He was almost exclusively breastfed up to 4 months, but then his pediatrician asked us to supplement with formula, and my milk supply hasn't been the same since. Pumping didn't really work for us, so that's that!
Baby food brand
One of the biggest perks of living in Munich is finding HIPP everywhere. It's hands down our go-to baby food brand - from the formula (Combiotik) to both savory and "sweet" baby foods, baby water, and cereal. It's affordable, organic and the quality is superb. S loves it, and so do we.
That said - we mostly cook him veggies at home, but HIPP is the most wonderful alternative when we simply don't have the time.
Sterilizing
The "sterilizing" bit of the daily tasks isn't completely accurate any longer. I now usually just wash the bottle as soon as possible (and very thoroughly too, because as much as I approve the HIPP formula, the Combiotik 2 is super sticky and there's always residue, so I have to triple check each time). Bottles are now sterilized 2x/week; pacifiers are still sterilized daily though.
Play time
When we're home, S spends most of the time on a play mat on the floor with his baby gym and other toys, hence the importance of keeping the floor clean even though he isn't crawling yet. We got one of those rubber, non-toxic play mats, which really helps him get a good grip while on tummy. We love it, but unfortunately so does our cat... So I'm not sure how long it will last.
What the hell is a butt cloth?
We always attach the pacifier to a tiny cloth to keep it clean and covered from dust, etc. When at home, we always clean our baby’s butt with cotton and water, and keep the overnight used pacifier cloth to dry the excess, hence calling it "butt cloth" (vice-versa with the cloth that's used with the pacifier during the day). They're obviously washed and ironed before we use them with the pacifier again. ;)
Bath time routine
This one isn't detailed on the PDF because it's a whole category of its own. It includes (but isn't limited to): showering or bathing baby, drying him thoroughly, applying moisturizer on face and body while massaging him, dressing him, combing his hair, cleaning ears and nose, giving his vitamine D, then nursing AND bottle-feeding him... As my husband puts it "why did we ever grow up?".
Ironing
Yup, we iron all of his clothes, always. Maybe it's a Brazilian thing? We thought we could/would stop once he turned six months, but we've gotten too used to it by now. I'm sure this will be different once baby number 2 comes along.
Long story short - I hope this helps. Do let me know in the comments if you've found this helpful, and/or if you have any questions. Hopefully this won't discourage anyone from having babies!
The half-year mark
It's dumbfounding just how much a little being can teach you in half a year. I can't help but acknowledge that had it been any ordinary 6 months (and not my son's first half year on Earth), I wouldn't have necessarily valued them. I would've gone ahead with work, grateful for some projects and making do with others. All of a sudden it would've been fall, then winter. I would plan a nice trip with my husband. I would've enjoyed the straightforwardness of it all, and I would've perhaps appreciated the freedom to do whatever I wanted. Yet, I know there's nothing I could've done in that time that would have been nearly as gratifying and mesmerizing as watching my kid develop, and noticing myself develop with him.
It hasn't been without its (many) challenges. As a parent in 2018 one can't help but compare oneself - and one's baby - to others on Instagram. Or, you know, any social channel. It's an extremely slippery slope. I'll watch videos of adorable babies holding their little feet up at 4 months. S started doing that last week. I'll see extremely precocious babies holding their weight on their little legs at 3 months or, more commonly, rolling over at 5. S isn't really interested yet, and my concerns do not afflict him. He's on no one's schedule but his own.
In his first six months of life, my son has taught me to appreciate every little squeal, every laughter, naps and even poopy diapers. Try as I might to assist him into reaching another "milestone", he'll stare back at me as if to say: Relax. Take it in. You'll miss this. He has taught me that now that he's around everything is different, and he's the one making the rules of my new life. Being in control has become just as important as learning to let go.
It all goes by too fast, as everyone truthfully says. For the past half-year I've looked forward to this moment - when I wouldn't need to sterilize bottles all the time, when he'd be able to eat solids, when I'd start getting him all the cool, bright, loud interactive toys and squeeze some extra giggles out of him. When I could try and tone down being a germaphobe, and when he'd start reaching significant milestones. Now that it's here, I wish it would slow down. Part of me looks eagerly forward to that first step; the other part truly appreciates that my son has decided to take his time, at least for now.
Two days ago S started teething, and as he cried on and off into the night it stirred up all kinds of feelings. Frustration, yes, but also the realization that this is parenthood. One day he can barely open his eyes, and a moment later his first little teeth are starting to show. No one's life, not even his, will stop for me to get my bearings and adjust to the passing of time. The flip side is that trying to soothe a crying child at 3am by any means possible is as real and as in-the-present as it gets. This, while realizing that the one thing that makes him feel better is something as simple as your smell. Realizing half-asleep that at 6 months, as from day 1, you're your little one's everything, and that he'll forever be yours, too.
Thank you, so much, to every precious moment within this half-year mark for teaching me this much.
Reclaiming my body
I find myself reminiscing about my pregnancy surprisingly often. Despite the anxiety, migraine and heartburn my bump generated, I did love the feeling of meditating while focusing on my son, or the thrill I felt every time he kicked. I cherished every moment knowing that he would never be that close to me again. There's also nothing quite like the pampering one gets while sporting an obvious bun in the oven (to the point of being bumped up to first class on a flight).
But the truth is, during all of 2017 I was basically my son's host. I went into my pregnancy pitifully naive, with little to no knowledge of just how much my body would change, and how little control I would have over it for many months to come.
For starters, my diet changed. I went from being vegetarian to shameful omnivore for my son's sake. It was a lose/lose situation: I felt lazy and guilty for compromising my personal ethic and palate, but knew that if my baby had any developmental issues due to my diet I would never ever be able to live with myself. I couldn't take any risks. Testing negative for toxoplasmosis also meant that I had to be super extra careful around salads, my favorite cheeses AND my cat. From one day to the next I became not only a meat-eater, but a massively annoying germaphobe.
My fitness level also, naturally, changed. Prior to finding out I was pregnant, I would take my bike to work almost every day. I would often go to the gym before work, too. I loved realizing that I could lift more weight than many guys in my body pump classes. Alas, none of that remained the same. I still worked out up to the week before my son's birth, but at a much slower, lighter, non-demanding - frankly, boring - level. My body was already busy working on the greatest challenge it could ever undertake.
Finally, I had little control over my brain, too. "Pregnancy brain" is not a myth, at least in my experience. I was horribly affected by a crippling anxiety, and struggled to retain some balance, especially in the first trimester.
All in all, being pregnant was a bliss and a pain, the most wonderful and testing experience - i.e. a great appetizer for what life with an infant would come to be.
Because, of course, a breastfeeding mother cannot reclaim her body just like that, either. My son's pediatrician ordered me to keep on eating animal protein - and, once again, I wouldn't take any chances. There is a loooong list of forbidden foods and activities for nursing mothers, too. Not to mention local beliefs (in Brazil, it's said that eating chocolate can lead to your baby having colic; in Germany, they believe that working out too much leads to the milk turning sour).
Which is why my son's 6th "monthversary" is a truly exciting occasion for me. Not only does he have massive milestones coming up right around the corner, the pressure is also (a little bit) off as I hit a personal breastfeeding turning point. 2018 is hence, for me, the year to take over my body once again. To become vegetarian, to lift heavy weights, to run a semi-marathon if I wish to. To drink all the wine and eat all the cheese. To be powered by coffee. It is, second only to being a mother, the year of redefining who I am to myself.
At almost 6 months postpartum, I haven't reached my pre-pregnancy weight yet, and I'm honestly dreadfully far from it. My pants do fit with some extra effort and some tucking in, but my body still feels off. And it's frustrating to come off on the other side of 1+ year of constant, uncontrollable change still "feeling off". Of course, it's all more than worth it and I would do it all again in a heartbeat - but still, let's not forget that mothers are individuals. With a body. With a mind. And with a hell of a learning curve before landing on a new "normal". On a new identity, an idea of self, an acceptance of what we see in the mirror, and who we are beyond that.
This year, I may not reclaim my time or my sleep (will I ever?). But I'm proudly rediscovering, reconnecting, redefining - reclaiming my body. And also my mind. My soul. For I must constantly remind myself that in this new normal I am S's proud and loving mother, but I am also so much more.
Photo credit: Carolina Goetz
Looking back, thinking forward, living now
Come this time every year, I can't help but join the masses in feeling more introspective than usual. I trick myself into believing that by 23:59 of the 31st, I must have worked out most of my flaws and past failures, acknowledged everything that I have to be grateful for, and be ready to face the new year with clear goals in mind and the resilience to accomplish them.
2017 has been a toughly joyful year. Or joyfully tough? It was the most sweet and sour year I've had in my life, though I know without the shadow of a doubt that its highlight (the birth of my son) outweighs any and all hardships I have faced.
*10*
This time last year, I was about 2 months pregnant. I was so happy, so grateful, so scared - I ached to tell people about my little bundle of joy, yet I wouldn't dare.
*9*
I rushed to write my resolutions, a little later than usual. I normally write them throughout the 31st or a couple of days before (for fear that a last minute event would force me to refocus my objectives for the following year), but last year I found myself hurrying through them in the last hour. "This time around, it doesn't matter", I thought, knowing I wouldn't look again at them past January 1st anyway. My number one aim was to become a mother.
*8*
...To become a mother while generally becoming a better person, too, of course. That's what resolutions are all about, in any case. I guess most of us strive to be a better version of ourselves in one way or another. Although it's exhausting, to be honest, having this insatiable urge to "become better".
*7*
Last year I aimed at becoming a mother while keeping my anxiety in check, being kinder, meditating, doing yoga, kicking ass at work, being there for my husband, keeping in touch with my family and friends, writing on a regular basis and working on my German.
*6*
Yet, that's not enough - is it ever? New Year's Eve is just as much an opportunity to start new, to refresh our resilience, to have hope and believe that this time around it'll be different, I will be different!... as it is the opportunity to remind oneself that there will always be, without a doubt, room for improvement.
*5*
I always opt to focus on the former option, for the sake of my own sanity and to cultivate some optimism. It's the very least I owe to my son. In a world where Trump is president, we could all use optimism.
*4*
This year, I must carry somewhat of a load with me past the last minute of 2017. As someone who craves organization, clear-cut ends/beginnings and is extremely structure-driven, this is has been hard for me to accept. I held on to the hope that it would be sorted until the last business day of the year, but it didn't really work that way. It's taken a bit away from my childish hope that things can change for the better, just like that, at the turn of the clock. I wish I could leave this load behind, but alas, it' beyond me. What's new on my new year's resolutions? Accept the things I can't control.
*3*
Yet! It's always at the very end of a countdown, once we're past introspection and hope and uncertainty and perhaps even regret that we say "SCREW IT! I'm gonna enjoy myself". For what matters in the end and should suffice beyond any other accomplishment is that we're here now. We're healthy, we're fed, we have a roof over our heads and we have each other. I could be a master-yogi-meditation-guru-badass-businesswoman-fierce-fearless-mother tomorrow, and perhaps I will. For now, however, being myself is plenty and anything else is honestly a generous bonus.
*2*
So come midnight I will put my load down, drink champagne, kiss my husband, hug my parents, embrace my son and truly hope. Hope for myself and for all of us that we can get past whatever let us down in the past, that we can get the renewal we want and deserve from turning the page into a new year, that we can focus on all that we have to look forward to, and that we can be grateful for what we already have. I'll hope - no, believe - that I have the resilience necessary to accomplish every single thing that I set out to do, including (but not limiting myself to) being the best mother I can be. I'll also believe that if these things aren't accomplished, I'll have the wisdom to be truly happy with what is already here.
*1*
We can always pick up our loads again tomorrow. For now, we drink, we sing, we dance, and we believe.
HAPPY NEW YEAR!
The most wonderful time of the year
My husband and I couldn't have come from more different backgrounds. He's French/American, I'm Brazilian; he's a passionate omnivore, I'm a vegetarian; he's as much of an extrovert as I am an introvert; and at last the one that gets to us the most - religion.
When YY and I started dating, I had very few expectations. Knowing he was a nice Jewish guy from a pretty traditional family, and most importantly knowing that I was not, it's needless to say that I thought it might be smart to keep things casual for my own heart's sake. I've grown up pretty much agnostic, even though my family's Catholic. My own parents chose to not baptize me so that one day I could opt for a religion myself, should I want one.
8 years, a marriage and a baby later, I am grateful to have failed at "keeping it casual".
Yet, with all the love and respect and mutual admiration that we have for each other, raising a little human in our context is particularly mind-boggling. It's at "the most wonderful time of the year" that fundamental questions, so obvious to most couples, hit us the hardest. With the end of Hanukkah and with Christmas right around the corner, the first holiday season with our little guy necessarily brings up doubts about how we want to raise him, and how we would like to set up the cornerstone of his cherished childhood memories and lifelong traditions.
For starters, we live in Germany, a country which official language neither of us master. Although we appreciate the culture, it isn't ours to keep or pass on. So when it comes to traditions, whose should we follow? Should S, our son, believe that the Christ Kindl brings him gifts on the 25th of December, as would Bavarian kids? Will he feel left out if we don't put together an advent calendar? Or should he believe in Santa Claus, like his mom once did? Should he, like her, stay up late on the 24th to open the gifts that somehow Santa had just brought, and yet had also paradoxically been sitting under the tree for the past month?
Or should we tell him from the get-go that Santa isn't real? Should we focus solely on Hanukkah? In which case, should we make it slightly more appealing by having YY dress up as an armadillo like Ross did on Friends? Otherwise, when it comes to gifts, should he get 9 of them? With so many questions, one thing is for certain - YY and I are determined to do things our way, as unique as it may sound and whatever that may be.
While I am ready to set aside my mostly Catholic upbringing, I am not ready to give up on Christmas. I didn't have many traditions growing up, so Christmas Eve was truly the highlight of many of my years. It was the one day when my family got together, traveling from all over the state of Rio, gathering at my home. I would wake up to the smell of traditional Christmas food, hoping with all my might that "this year, finally, I would get a puppy!" (my number one wish on Santa's list for 28 years and counting). My mom would blast Christmas carols all day long, always starting with an old Disney CD we owned. I remember the day I realized Santa wasn't real, from seeing my cousin's black hair under the wig - I was equally disappointed with the truth and proud of myself for being smart. Long story short, the memories are too many and too great to give up on, and I would like to provide the opportunity for my son to build a similar repertoire of childhood souvenirs. YY, of course, has just as many memories from his own Hanukkah celebrations, and I don't see why either of us should want to omit or prevent our son from enjoying our traditions - all of them.
To be honest, we're winging it. But the other day I was finally certain that we're on the right track, when YY picked up S and said: "Do you realize how lucky you are little one? You get latkas AND panettone!". That sounds about right. That's just how lucky we are, this or any other time of the year, loving and supporting each other because of our differences, not in spite of them. With that in mind and in the spirit of the season, I wish you and yours the happiest of holidays.
Photo credit: Carolina Goetz
Starnberg in the fall
Starnberg isn't really the first destination to pop to mind on a cold and cloudy day, especially with a baby in tow. However, I'm slowly but surely taking the cue from the Germans that any weather is "baby weather" when you've got the right gear. It seems that, to them, it doesn't make any sense to stay locked up at home just because it's raining and just because you have a baby, so we've decided to give that mentality a try.
The truth is that I love Munich and its surroundings any time of the year, and it would make me really sad to not do any of the outings I've enjoyed so far just because S is here (if anything, I feel like it should be the opposite).
As someone who grew up without real seasons (Southern Hemisphere, anyone?), I've learned to appreciate the particularities of each season since I moved to Europe. While summer will always hold a place near and dear to my heart, fall has surely become a favorite second.
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?
Saying hello to baby
I found out I was pregnant a year ago this week. It had been 10 days since my wedding, and I'd been half-jokingly telling my husband that maybe we should "start trying". No one around me thought I had a way with children (and I didn't either), yet I've always wanted to be a mother.
I wrote a heartfelt note to my baby on the night I discovered I was expecting:
"Hello Baby,
As I write this, on November 9th 2016, you're supposedly a tiny little speck the size of a poppy seed, and you've just made yourself cozy in my uterus. I say "supposedly" because all proof we have of your existence so far consists of salmon cravings, some dizziness, tender breasts, cramps, and 3 positive pregnancy tests. Yet, you've already managed to turn our world upside down.
Yesterday at the office, you spoke to me. I heard your faint, soft whisper, and it said "you're pregnant". I had always wondered if I would feel different, if I would have been able to tell before any test could confirm. Thank you for letting me know.
The moment I tested positive with you, I thought I was going to faint. You see, your daddy and I weren't planning for you to come this early, although we did already talk about you a lot. Daddy and I have been married for less than 2 weeks, which means that you were there, too, quietly forming our little family with us. And now here you are, making yourself known. Everything else has become unimportant in one instant.
I wish I could give you good news about the world you're being born into, but I'm afraid it's a bit of a mess at the moment. One of your 3 countries has just elected a big bully and a villain, which makes us feel both scared and queasy about the future. Yet I can't help but smile, and dream, and rejoice. A world where you exist is a world worth living in. Thank you for giving us hope."
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-AID
I'm naturally prone to anxiety. During my pregnancy, I would have a serious crisis at least once a month. The worst episode culminated with me crying at work due to a misunderstanding with a colleague, to the point that I had to go home. I thought I was just being "hormonal". I thought it would get better after I gave birth. It didn't.
If you send me an article about SIDS, I won't sleep. Then there is a heartfelt report from a mother pleading parents to learn first-aid that has been circulating (read: haunting me) on social media lately, which is why I jumped at the opportunity to attend a children and infant first-aid course, dragging my husband along with me.
ASB (Arbeiter-Samariter-Bund) offers one voucher per year to members who wish to attend first-aid courses for adults, elderly, children, etc. Without the voucher, the course costs 40EUR (but you can become an ASB member by donating as little as 24EUR/year). I became a member by chance as ASB volunteers knocked on my door, but I was sold when they told me about the possibility of taking the course.
Granted, it was all in German. YY was frustrated at first, as he felt like we weren't getting all that we could from it due to the language barrier. But regardless, it was definitely worth our time and the paranoia that followed.
A few takeaways, or just interesting facts:
- There are two species of poisonous spiders in Germany (!!)
- The worst disease-transmitting animals for children are: 1. Rats, 2. Cats, 3. Humans (kids bite!)
- 50% of fatal accidents with babies involve drowning
- There's LOTS of wasps hidding in bakery-bought donuts
- The vast majority of accidents happen at home; the second majority happen during free-time
- First-aid must happen within 2-3 minutes at the event of serious injury involving the brain, the heart or the lungs.
- The German average time for help to arrive is 15 minutes; in Munich, it's 8 minutes (hence the importance of knowing first-aid)
- Knowing the right emergency number to call is KEY. The right number = the right questions being asked, and that saves time, which can save a life
- People who work in childcare don't have the right to clean a wound with water, as that's considered "wound-cleaning" and this being Germany only doctors/paramedics have the right to perform it. Parents are allowed to forgo this rule.
- Finally, we did some practical CPR exercises on a baby doll and child doll, which gave me the creeps
The course lasted for a good chunk of the day (9am-2:30pm), so we obviously learned much more than that. We were taught what to do at the event of choking, eating insects, hypothermia, heat insolation, unconsciousness with/without breathing etc., and we got the booklet with brilliant 90s stock footage, which lightened my heart at the end of such a tension-packed workshop (for me, at least).
Did I get to sleep better after attending the course? Nope. But would I recommend it to anyone caring for a tiny person? Absolutely.
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.
