4/52

A portrait of my child, once a week, every week, in 2015.

Last Friday I took Miss A to the YMCA to check out the facility. I knew as soon as I left her in the germ-infested children's area it was a mistake. First thing Monday morning BAM! she had her first cold. Before long our entire house turned into an infirmary. And now I know a new level of agony: cradling your sick child during the night. Let's hope the weekend puts us back together again. 

3/52

A portrait of my child, once a week, every week, in 2015.

The First Six Weeks

You go through big chunks of time where you're just thinking, 'This is impossible — oh, this is impossible.' And then you just keep going and keep going, and you sort of do the impossible.

—Tina Fey on motherhood

Whenever I experience a hardship of any significance I debate about sharing that experience; specifically sharing it on this corner of the Internet. Like most, I would rather hide the hard parts. Gloss over them by putting on a pretense, shrug my shoulders and sigh, as if to say Oh, it wasn't that bad. When, in truth, it was.

But because I would like to be more authentic on this space, and in my life in general, I want to share something that happened to me as a new mom. This story might not resonate with you (full disclosure: I talk about my breasts here) and that's okay. I still need to write it. To uncover a portion of my vulnerability, thus honoring, owning, and remembering my story.

I should have known better than to think a smooth pregnancy would translate to a smooth transition to motherhood. That I would be tired, certainly. That my life would never be the same, a given. But breastfeeding? No one told me about breastfeeding.

Or perhaps I should more accurately say that I never took it upon myself to find out what feeding a baby from my body would mean. Mistakenly I thought it would be natural. That my body would know what to do and how to do it. That my baby would be nourished and we'd develop that mother-child bond so formative in the first few months. That I would stand in a field and get a crown. Unfortunately that's not how things turned out.

Looking back on the moments after Amelia's birth I think part of the reason for my trouble was that I didn't nurse right away. Not until that night in fact. Luckily, when I did, she latched on right away. Holding her was a little trickier. After carefully positioning numerous pillows I managed to figure out the best cradle for us. And though I knew it would be a while before my milk came in I felt confident from that first connection that we were set. Then we left the hospital.

Because Amelia had to come home on a bilirubin paddle due to some jaundice, the nurses sent us home with several bottles of ready-to-use formula. Just in case. Our pediatrician even recommended that we would likely need to supplement until my milk came in, which I desperately didn't want to do. Days after being home from the hospital my milk still hadn't come in and my breasts were engorged. Suddenly my once supple breasts felt like they were made of concrete with hot lava pulsing through them. The pain sent me into a panic and resulted in a 3:00am hospital phone call. Horrified that I would not be able to do the simplest mammalian task I explained my situation to the nurse. She recommended ibuprofen and ice for swelling and a pump to stimulate milk production.

But I only had a hand pump and no feeling in my right hand. Which meant that I had to use my non-dominant hand to suction my breast into a little plastic horn in the middle of the night. Squeeze after squeeze and nothing. I kept at it. Nearly an hour later I had less than an ounce of liquid. Defeated I had to admit there was no way around it, Amelia needed formula to survive.

Finally, nearly a week after Amelia was born, the engorgement subsided and I started to produce milk. After using the worthless hand pump I decided it would be better to try a mechanical pump. Luckily our insurance company covered this benefit but I had to wait a week for shipping (pro tip: look into this before you have a baby.) Meanwhile we found a local company that rented breast pumps which I was able to use in the interim.

Aside: This isn't a treaty on breast is best and formula is evil. Whatever you decide to do for your child is right for your baby. I'm not a nursing expert nor an evangelist, I just wanted to breastfeed my baby. Sadly, no matter what you decide— breastmilk or formula — most mothers will experience some level of guilt. I wish this wasn't the case. However we've been socialized to feel one method is superior to the other. 

As is common for many women one breast started to produce more than the other; which was also the side Amelia gravitated towards. When Amelia didn't gain weight like she was suppose to I felt additional pressure to give her formula. Still I kept nursing. Despite being blindsided by the pain.

Horrific pain.

Every time I needed to nurse Amelia I cringed. My body tensed bracing for the pain. Tears stung my eyes as I wondered what I was doing wrong. This happened 8-12 times a day. Every day. Each time she latched on I tried different techniques to get through that feeding. I focused on my breathing. I clasped my breast tissue with my other hand smashing it into a flat sandwich, trying to relocate the pain to another part of my body. By week three I couldn't take it. Standing in the shower I remember looking at my bleeding nipples, skin dangling off the tips and thinking This is so HARD. I can't do this. What was I thinking?

It was then that I decided to take a few days off nursing to pump exclusively (that unavoidable bovine humiliation) and give my breasts time to heal. It was also around this time that I worked up the courage to attend a nursing support group. The support group was held at the same store I had rented my breast pump. There were thirty women in a large circle each holding children from newborn to 16 months. I felt completely intimidated. Had I attended the group when my emotions weren't so volatile I would have likely returned. As it was I found little consolation in the unsatisfactory answers I received, but I did discover that this was something I could have attended prior to giving birth. Again, something I should have investigated.

When I went back to nursing the pain returned. The mental battle of whether to keep nursing or just go to the bottle was exhausting. I just wanted to feed my baby from my body but I felt betrayed by my biology. It went on like this for days. Between grimaces I kept wondering when it would get better. Just get through six months I told myself. You can do this for six months. Then I would indulge my imagination by picturing some sort of luxurious vacation as my reward for enduring this uniquely maternal millstone. During much of this time I was fortunate to have Ken by my side. Having him off work for an entire month was nothing short of a blessing.

Then, as hard things do, it got easier. Six weeks passed and air whooshed back into my lungs. Breastfeeding was no longer torture. It felt like a miracle. A much needed miracle. That's not to say it was a cakewalk from that point forward. In truth it became hard in other ways. Moments when Amelia would refuse to take my swollen breast and eat only from a bottle. A kind of rejection that was difficult to not take personally. After she finished her bottle, I would unhooked my nursing bra, remove my soggy nursing pads and pump for another 30-45 minutes.

Even as I recount these memories my shoulders tense at the thought. Those first six weeks were rough. Now, six months is just around the corner and I still hope I make it. My supply has started to dwindle and nothing I do makes up the difference, which means we're back to the beginning. Feeding Amelia formula bottles once or twice a day. Except now she's eating solid food to help keep up her nutritional intake. Even though nursing was the hardest part of becoming a mother I feel some sort of strange pride that I kept going. Pride that I faced the physical pain. Over and over again. But even if I hadn't I have a suspicion that Amelia would have turned out just fine either way. In the end I suppose that's all that matters. Meanwhile I'm still working on making peace with how the rest of it all happened.

Ps. Thank heavens for this salve. 

Also, I think this documentary (which you can watch on Netflix) should be mandatory viewing for all women, mothers or otherwise—I wish I had known about it six month ago. 

2/52

A portrait of my child, once a week, every week, in 2015.

Words: Wisdom

Ask parents about the first six weeks of their first baby, and you will see the puzzled awe in their eyes and hear it in their voices "I remember," they'll say vaguely, "but I don't know how we did it." 
And people don't like to talk about it. We're suppose to adore our infants instantly and relish every moment of their babyhood because, by God, it is a miracle that they come to birth at all, and they "grow up so quickly." We're suppose to be grateful every moment for their health and joyful about how lucky we are. People coo and fuss over infants and beam at the lucky parents, sometimes asking with a sympathetic furrowed brow, "Is he a good baby?" or "How is she doing at night?" But most friendly inquirers don't really want you to speak the truth: "Last night I thought I had reached the end of my rope when he woke up for the fourth time." or "Sometimes when he cries and cries I wonder why I had a baby in the first place." And who wants to talk about it aloud, anyways? Falling to pieces is a private thing. Easier for everyone if the parents smile weakly and try to fulfill, in public anyways, the happy, adoring cultural ideal.

But the truth is that even when one does adore the baby and feel profoundly grateful for the child's very existence, let alone good health, these weeks are still hard. In fact, caring for a newborn infant test the bounds of human endurance.

—Debra Rienstra

An excerpt from Great with Child: Reflections on Faith, Fullness and Becoming a Mother; the one book I wish I had read before becoming a parent.

1/52

A portrait of my child, once a week, every week, in 2015.

Lady J, as we sometimes call her, is 21 weeks today; just shy of five months. On occasion I find myself mourning her babyhood, for she seems to be turning into more of a big girl every day. This week we started her on solid food—homemade rice cereal and sweet potatoes to begin with. It was epic. Although she made a few faces she seemed to really get into the experience of rolling around solid textures in her mouth. She alternated between gumming her bib and taking in tiny spoonfuls. And what a mess. It's funny though to watch someone experience new things for the first time and to think Oh yeah, I guess I had to learn this too. We forget. Then babies force us to remember. 

Hello 2015

Sometimes it's easy to define an entire year with one word. Hard. Amazing. Life-changing. But the longer I live the more I realize that each year, heck sometimes each day, is a spectrum. Highs and lows. Ups and downs. Growth and insight. Over the past few years I've noticed a trend in my own life. It goes like this. One year I have a major health challenge. The following year I have a major life event (sometimes two within a few short months). Maybe this is the year the cycle changes.

I love the idea of turning the calendar to take inventory of my priorities. I was talking with a friend over the holiday break and she mentioned one of her goals for the new year was to stay more connected to the people who mattered in her life. Which is kind of the point, right? We need each other to steady the undulations; to share our stories and make life easier for one another. When I look at 2014 I remember some really soul-crushing moments, however I also recall some incredibly joyous memories too. And I'm glad for that. Glad that I get a few more breaths and time on this planet. As to what's ahead for 2015 here's what I'm putting my energy towards.

1. Make more: I have three beautiful craft books sitting on my bookshelf that are begging to be used. Maybe I'll host a couple craft parties so that I can be inspired with an entire group of makers.

2. 52 Project: "A portrait of my child, once a week, every week, in 2015."

3. Become a saver: Saving money as a habit has never been my forte. This year I plan to implement a couple practices that I think will change that.

4. Complain less: Pretty self explanatory.

5. Walk, walk, walk: Since my gym routine has become a little disrupted I'd like to get in the habit of walking around my neighborhood. Because exercise and fresh air, right?