Tag Archive for: baby

When Beau Was Born.

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Never in my life did I think I would give birth without an epidural. Mostly because I’d rather not be in more pain than I need to be. But also because I really didn’t think I could do it. And when my baby’s head was inching its way out of my body in the triage room bathroom, I was more terrified than I can ever remember being.

My labor with Lilah was odd. It wasn’t like how I’d been taught in my birth classes. “5-1-1” was what they told me and then head to the hospital. But my contractions were never that way. One minute, 30 seconds, three in a row, a few minutes between. They were all over the place. And in the early hours of November 19, it was just the same.

Around 4:30am, Eric urged me to call my doctors office after I announced that I felt like my pelvis was splitting in half. “Doesn’t sounds great, Lizz”, he said and handed me my phone. The doctor on call assured me we had time, after all my contractions were all over the place. Even after sharing my previous birthing experience, she told me to wait until 7am to come in. To be honest, I wasn’t even convinced of my own labor, and was afraid I’d be sent home, so I agreed. A half hour later I hobble down the stairs amidst intense sweats and bouts of nausea, stopping every few seconds to get through another wave of pain. This baby was on its way, that much I knew. I just had no idea how “on its way” he really was.

We pulled into the hospital around 5:20am and parked on the roof. I refused to let Eric drop me off at the front door. I was terrified to be left alone. My contractions were now one big block of pain. As we exited the elevator a surge of pressure caused me to wonder if I was about to give birth right there on the sidewalk. We waddled a bit faster and I collapsed in a wheelchair at the door. Up on the 8th floor I could barely give them my name. They wheeled me back to triage with the promise to check me in properly, once I got settled. We sat in the hallway while they prepared the triage room for us. A janitor reminded me to breathe through the pain as I contemplated how I was ever going to make it an hour until the anesthesiologist could get there.

Once in the room I decided to try and pee before the poking and prodding began. No sooner had I sat down, I felt this undeniable urge to push. I couldn’t have stopped it if I tried. It was like my body had taken over and I was just a crying, blubbering shell. Eric thought my cries of “he is coming now” were just my dramatic nature (which in his defense is completely valid). But once he realized there was indeed a head coming out of me, he ran to the hall. A few nurses flooded into the bathroom, took one look at me and began shouting instructions. I remember telling one of them “I can’t do this” and she said to me “but you already are. You’re doing it!” *mental note to find that nurse and buy her anything she wants*

I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror before they waddled me out into the room and onto the bed. I looked straight into my eyes, those same eyes that have overcome so much deep fear and many dark days. I remember thinking in that moment, “I think I’m going to die or at the very least pass out”. But the body is an amazing thing, the female psyche is an amazing thing.

Somehow my shoes and sweatpants made it off and there I was, my head hanging off the bed, pushing my baby boy into the world. 3 big pushes and he was out. I have never been so relieved in my entire life. I have also never been so proud of myself or so certain that I can do hard things.

I don’t always believe that I can get through hard things without breaking. But all signs point to the fact that I have, and I can, and this little guy will always be a symbol of that. In the weeks since, I have already been hit with moments I don’t think I’m strong enough to face. I don’t always believe that I can get through hard things without breaking. But all signs point to the fact that I have, and I can, and this little guy will always be a symbol of that.

 

Round 2

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By the grace of God; Eric, Lilah, and I will be welcoming a baby into our family in November. The last few months have been emotional and physically exhausting, but we are so very grateful and do not take this gift lightly.

In the spirit of full vulnerability, I want to share my initial reaction to my pregnancy:

Pregnant. The digital pee stick told me so. Well to be fair it told me “no” twice first. But, in the middle of a hectic morning, “pregnant” flashed across the teeny gray screen. My stomach leaped with excitement. Another one. More cute fingers and toes, sloppy kisses, and little baby snores. But quickly followed the dark thoughts that know how to steal my joy: more sleepless nights, postpartum emotions, breastfeeding, sickness, tantrums, not knowing what the hell I am doing. Can I even do this? Two? Can I even handle one? Actually, let’s be honest, can I even handle myself?

But this is what I know to be true, when I am uncertain of my own abilities:

“Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me, Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me, Christ to my right, Christ to my left, Christ when I lie down, Christ when I sit down”

-St. Patrick

We are so thankful for this adventure. And I will try to be as honest as I possibly can throughout.

Love to you all, my friends!

Lizz

New Years Resolutions, Dreams, and Motherhood.

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I’ve never been much of a resolution gal, but I’ve always been a dreamer. And who doesn’t perch at the beginning of a new year and daydream about what is to come? Some of us make one big goal, some choose a word, some choose so many goals that we collapse overwhelmed three days in.

But as I sit here on my couch, in stillness, my dreams for the new year feel a bit jumbled. There are dreams for my family and our future that come easily and without much coaxing. And there are dreams for just myself-big ones, impossible ones, things that once seemed attainable. But there’s a shift once you have a little person or two relying on you for life…your dreams take a back seat. They just do, it’s the nature of things. And the backseat is fine because they’re still in the car, they’re just not the focus, the one up front controlling the radio. But how do I honor my dreams just as strongly when they’re not in the forefront? Is it even possible to have dreams and change diapers?

Of course there is, right? Women have been doing it for ages. But sometimes when you’re up to your elbows in someone else’s poop, it doesn’t really feel like there are dreams beyond motherhood.

So what do we do? Where do we turn? Do we just throw in the towel and “wait until their older” to honor our souls? Big fat NOPE. Baby steps my friends, that’s how. Because achieving the goal isn’t really the purpose, it’s about honoring ourselves enough to reach towards the goal, and move into the space of accepting our dreams.

This year I’ve come face to face with the reality that I have given up on the dream I have had since I was a little girl: the dream of being a professional actress. I used to stand in front of my mirror and accept an Oscar over and over again. I’d sing the songs from Les Miserables until my throat was sore . But life got in my way a bit, and over the years the dream was pushed to the side. I remember being accepted into college, crying inside that I had never even tried to get into NYU as I had always dreamed.

The truth is, my life has changed. But that dream is still there asking to be acknowledged in some way. And so I will continue to honor it by bravely auditioning for shows in my area, and taking dance classes at 28 years young. And maybe just maybe I will stretch way out far and be an extra in a movie. Baby steps.

There are other dreams too-to write a book, to get back into half marathon shape, to travel more. And they all begin with baby steps. Dreams that I give life to in even the most minuscule of ways. Who cares if I “get there”, all that matters is that I reached towards it, even while momming.

And can I just say friends, let’s not forget that reaching for our dreams is an absolute privilege. I do not take for granted the freedom I have to dream and do something about it.

Dream big this year mamas, and baby steps.

Why Me

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Today as I was nursing Lilah before her nap, I felt an overwhelming sense of thankfulness at the little person wrapping her little arm around my waist. But that feeling of thankfulness was followed by another familiar question: why me?

I’ve wondered this at so many times throughout my life, both the good and the bad. But now as a mother I wonder: Why have I been given a child when others struggle to have one? Why am I able to nurse my little girl in peace while other babies are ripped from their mothers arms at the border? Why do I sit here a beautiful beach house while others sit amidst the dirt and grime of poverty, begging for food to feed their babies.

Why me?

I’ve been asking questions as early as I can remember. I’ve always been obsessed with fairness, justice. I don’t understand why some of us suffer more than others. Why some of us claw our way through life while others float by.

So many times I just stand there, look up, and ask “what the hell are you doing?”

Sometimes It’s in the midst of my own suffering; the deepness of my own thoughts has caused me much pain. But the older I’ve become, the more I’ve come to recognize my own privilege. The more my heart breaks for those who were given something different, a life I could never even imagine.

And while I believe that there is purpose in it all, that all things work together for good (Romans 8:28), I am still saddened, outraged, shocked over the things I see going on all around me. More often than not I cannot grasp that any of it is good.

I find myself praying that I will see things clearly. That my heart would break for those things in this world that really matter. That God would lead me into dark places without fear, that he would use my privilege to love others. If not that, what have I been given all of this for?

I wrestle with wanting to stay in my bubble. Wanting to avoid fear and pain, failure. But that bubble is also a prison that will rob me of true life.

Why me? I have no clue. But I will not waste it.

This New Person

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About 8 months ago I met two new people. One teeny tiny one that relies on me for everything. And one slightly bigger person who I’ve spent my whole entire life trying to figure out.

Me.

It’s interesting how you spend all this time preparing your heart and your home for this little person, and yet you can’t quite prepare yourself for the other person you will meet at the exact same time: yourself as a parent, and for me, a mom.

It’s not a negative, the exact opposite in fact. I thoroughly enjoy getting to know myself better. The ebbs and flows of life and constant transitions, though difficult, are also exciting. When I look back over my life, I see a series of new people sewn in with the old person I was, and what a beautiful tapestry it makes.

Now enough with the poetic writer stuff. My apologies. I expect you want the vulnerable, knitty gritty out of me right? Okay, I’ll do my best.

Trying to find your new sense of self while also taking care for a teeny person 24/7…not easy. Where I used to have a variety of ways to escape or care for myself emotionally, I now am only left with a few, and usually I am too tired to really pursue those.

Self love has taken on a little bit of a different feel these days. A warm cup of coffee in the afternoon, a nap while she naps, a quick workout before she needs to be fed again. Everything feels a little bit rushed, with a baby waiting at the end of every activity. I must try so very hard to rest.

Well crap. Because resting has never been my strong suit. I’ve never been a good napper, mediator, lie around all day-er. Productive is the only thing that feels right to me. Hilariously, now I am a mom, so productive goes right out the window. A day where laundry gets done but the rest of the house is a wreck is a win. A shower every three days is a win. A blog post written on a weekday is a win. A few moments journaling about my hopes and dreams-MAJOR WIN.

When I take a step back, I am the same me I have always been, with just a few little changes. And I have to work hard to remember that when it feels as though my life is nothing like it was, that I am a totally different person, I am just me, with a baby. And maybe the seasons of my life look a little different, and I have to spend my “free time” more wisely than I once did. But maybe it’s a gift to be forced into intentionality. To be given a reason to fight against day to day melancholy as I play blocks on the floor for yet another hour.

I’m still in there. There’s just a teeny person clinging to my hip. And I would take one toothy grin over a weekend on stage, or a 5 mile run, or a full night of sleep. Those things will come again, but for now, this is my beautiful, messy, exhausting life. And I am the same Lizz living in it.

Photography by Lexi Fazzolari. Cover photo by Ashley Sider

You’re a Good Mom If…

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For years I have heard mothers labeled as “good moms” and “bad moms”. As a middle class white Christian woman, most of the people I know are labeled by society as “good moms” (which is a whole other issue of discussion). However after working years in foster care, I have also gotten to know the ones that many call “bad moms”. And oh it breaks my heart. It breaks my heart that there’s this division between who is a good mom and who is not. A “good mom” is really one step away from a “bad mom” if we take away her resources. Could any of us really do it if we had a colicky baby in a one room apartment with no partner or family to support us, barely any money for food, and an addiction that has gripped us for years? And yet some of us have all the resources and struggle still.

Motherhood is NOT easy.

I want to scratch “good mom” and “bad mom” from our vocabularies. Because it produces shame, plants guilt, fosters hopelessness. I think many of us wonder if we are truly a good mom, regardless of how the world labels us. We wonder if we’re giving our little one everything they need, supporting their development, creating a healthy bond. But there are so many colors and shades of those colors when it comes to motherhood. We all do it differently. And that is more than okay-it is a gift.

You’re a good mom if you breastfeed or bottle feed, or whether you get milk from a donor whose producing like a farm cow. You’re a good mom if you vaccinate or don’t vaccinate-because both can be scary and the choices can feel hard. You’re a good mom if your baby sleeps on you all day or if they have a beautifully designed sleep schedule. You’re a good mom if your hair looks nice every day or if it’s in a greasy messy bun. You’re a good mom if your house is a mess or if it’s clean and organized. You’re a good mom if you lost all that baby weight upfront or if it’s hanging on for dear life. You’re a good mom if you struggle with a mental illness or if your seratonin functions like a champ. You’re a good mom if your kids have never had a Dorito or if it’s Dino nuggets for dinner every night. You’re a good mom if your little people get baths every night or once a week (if you’re lucky). You’re a good mom if your kids go to private school, public school, or are homeschooled. You’re a good mom if you’ve lived in the same house they’re whole lives or moved around a bunch. You’re a good mom if you back delicious treats for your kids or if you use your oven as storage. You’re a good mom if you’re up in the morning with a pep in you’re step or if you need 75 cups of coffee not to yell everything that comes out if your mouth. You’re a good mom on the days you have patience and the days you do not. You’re a good mom if your kid ends up in rehab, or if they struggle through a mental illness, or if they defy everything you’ve ever taught them. You’re a good mom if you love your kids and are doing your best-whatever that looks like for you. And sometimes that means dumping the kids on someone else for a few hours and crying under the comforter. Sometimes it means taking 3 buses to get to a one hour visit with your kids, trying not to cry as you wonder how you lost them. Sometimes our best is barely breathing. And sometimes we’ve got to pull up our bootstraps and do the things anyway. But we’re all different. Motherhood looks different for all of us. And at the end of the day all of our kids will need therapy anyway.

Mom Expectations-No Thanks

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Yesterday I got out of the house AND took a shower! Double win!  I spent my time out getting myself a 2018 planner because I’ve been without one for over a week now and I’m barely surviving (type A personality problems). When I am out on my own, I feel like I can breathe again. Lilah needs so much from me that sometimes I don’t even realize that I’ve neglected myself until there’s someone else watching out for her and I can just take a minute to be fully in my body. I don’t know whether it’s my own personality, or the pressure of our culture, or just this overall sense of fear that these moments will disappear and I won’t be able to get them back, but I often feel mom expectations strangling me.

It started when I was pregnant. The pressure to adorably capture every single week with a bump picture was suffocating. I never remembered, and part of me just didn’t care about doing it. But I would see other pregnant friend’s posts on social media and I would immediately panic because I wasn’t doing that. Was I missing something? Was I neglecting to capture these memories for my baby girl? And now she’s here, and the pull to capture every little moment, and document every smile, is even stronger. Sure I take a lot of pictures (have you seen that sweet little face?), and I journal most days and include Lilah milestones in that, but not a lot of planned memory capturing going on here. Of course I had high hopes going into this mama thing that I would create an organized online photo album and write all about Lilah’s day every single evening. But instead, our pictures of Lilah are hanging out somewhere in the cloud, and sleep is much more important to me at night than anything else.

Yesterday afternoon, after a particularly panicky moment in regards to my failure to organize my daughter’s memories, I found myself thinking about what is important to me from my childhood. My amazing mom kept journals and calendars for us and it really is fun to see what I was doing 2 weeks after birth, but honestly I can count on one hand the amount of times I have looked at those. But that picture of me running down the beach in my duck bathing suit? I look at that all the time. And that blanket I slept with until I was 10? It houses more memories than I can even explain. And above all else the most important things have been the things my parents taught me. The hours and hours a day my mom spent teaching me to read and write my name. The evenings when my dad would come home and wrestle with us until we could barely breathe we were laughing so hard. Those things above all else, I hold onto.  The other stuff, while sweet and fun to look at, isn’t a must. I don’t have to do it, and Lilah will be okay, I will be okay.

When wrestling against a certain expectation, I always ask myself if this would be important to the Ingalls family (you know, Little House on the Prairie). And what I mean by that is, was it something that they needed to survive or be happy? It’s my favorite way of bringing myself back to the basics. What do I need here? What does Lilah need here? Is this thing I am obsessing over really all that important? Did Ma and Pa keep endless memory boxes for Laura and her siblings? Nope. They didn’t even have photographs then and yet no one cared that they didn’t know what they looked like as a baby. And I bet that Ma spent way more time experiencing and way less time documenting. And hey, that’s not to say that I’m not going to bask in the beauty that is modern technology, but I’m sure I can learn a few things from the way that they lived their lives.

While I know I will forever battle these expectations of momhood- which bottles to use, or if co-sleeping is safe, or should you really give an infant Tylenol before shots-I am working every day to  create experiences whether I capture them forever or not. Documenting events will not be my obsession, but experiencing them. Lilah may not have a neat little picture album, and the journal of her first year of life may be filled with her mama’s own struggles and insecurities, but I will make sure that she has beautiful, challenging, comforting memories to hold onto for her entire life.